Go bury it somewhere it can't be found
by nicayal
Summary: Kingdom Hearts/Final Fantasy one-shots, all in one convenient place. If pairings end up happening, they trend toward AkuRoku, SoRiku, and Zemyx. Content rating is indicated at the top of each chapter.
1. First Kiss (AkuRoku)

**First Kiss**

**Author****'****s ****note**: I do believe this is the first thing I ever wrote for the Kingdom Hearts fandom. I knew next to nothing about it at the time. Does it show? xD

For those who follow me on deviantART, you've probably already read the first few of these.

**Word****count**: 384

**Rating**: PG (for an, uh, kiss?)

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><p>Contrary to popular belief, the first time we kissed it was Roxas who surprised me.<p>

On principle, I tend not to like surprises. Control. Advance knowledge of all possible outcomes. These are things I can get behind.

Surprises are too spontaneous. Surprises could be the end of me.

We were walking home after a particularly difficult training session. For Roxas, not me. I don't let things get to me; my emotions don't hold me down. The same can't be said for my dearest friend.

I've never understood tears, or those who have to battle with themselves to fight them back.

"I was terrible today," he'd said at the time. "Absolutely awful."

It wasn't that far from the truth. He'd been distracted, thinking of gods know what when he should've been anticipating the next strike. The lapse of concentration had landed him squarely on his back.

I should've agreed with him. Under normal circumstances, I would have. Pay better attention next time, I should've said. This isn't a game, and I want to see you return safely home at mission's end.

"We all have our off days, Rox," I'd said instead, shrugging as if it were no big thing.

Roxas had looked up at me in obvious surprise, and I can't say I blame him. I'm not one to lie, or soften the truth, even among friends. It was just something about the downtrodden way he'd looked since we left the center. Or...I don't know, so stop asking. It was just something, ok?

That was when he'd stopped me, turned me toward him, and met my eyes directly. They were sparkling cerulean blue, just threatening to spill over with tears. Yet his face was open and obviously happy. Sometimes I just couldn't figure this kid out.

That's when it happened, his lips on mine. It was a gentle, momentary thing, but I stiffened in shock at the intimacy of the touch.

After training that day, in the middle of town, Roxas stood on his tiptoes and gave me our first kiss.

Now, when I'm feeling desperate and wondering if he's even still alive, I hang on to that moment.

It's the moment I felt that twinging, wonderful flutter in my heart. For the first time in my life, I thought I might have one.


	2. Last Goodbye (AkuRoku)

**Last Good-bye**

**Author****'****s ****Note**: This is somewhat related to First Kiss, in that it was written in the same Axel character mindset. It can stand on its own too though, quite honestly.

**Word****count**: 332

**Rating**: G. Or E. Or whatever the tamest rating on is.

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><p>The last time I saw him, Roxas hadn't even been able to hazard a genuine smile.<p>

I'd expected him to be gone by this time of the morning, already well on his way toward whatever awaited him on this newest of missions, this one he'd been assigned to complete alone.

Instead, Roxas had come to my room, eyes wide, expression as open as it always seemed to be. Impassivity met naivety's gaze directly in the eyes.

"I..." he hesitated only a moment before continuing. "I just came to, well, say goodb-"

But I'd cut him off mid-sentence, with a perturbed wave of my hand.

"I'd have thought you were smarter than this, Rox," I said, allowing disapproval to seep into my tone. "I'd have thought you'd want to avoid distractions and focus on what's actually important."

The look on his face said it all. Standing before me, his mouth still half open a crack, Roxas' expression registered disbelief and...what was that? Hurt, maybe. Because of me, definitely.

It was then that I wanted to reach for him, to draw him into my arms and tell him everything I'd truly been feeling these past few weeks. It was then that I wanted to beg him not to go, ask him to stay with me just a little while longer.

Roxas would do it, I knew. He'd defy orders to please me if I simply said the words in the right way.

Instead, I jerked away from him, distancing myself both physically and emotionally.

"Just go," I'd said, making my voice indifferent, uncaring.

Looking like he might say something, I averted my gaze entirely away from him. This conversation was over as far as I was concerned.

When next I looked back, Roxas was gone, without even a hint that he'd ever stood so close to me this morning in the first place. The hall was empty. I was alone.

I wish I'd just gotten one more opportunity to look at him...


	3. Anatomy of a Kiss (AkuRoku)

**Anatomy of a Kiss**

**Author****'****s ****note**: This was originally a very (very, very) short roleplay my girlfriend and I did. Consequently, every word that comes out of Axel's mouth was one she created for the roleplay. I just cleaned it up and added the background and all that jazz. Cute? Maybe. Axel being hot? Definitely.

**Word****count**: 604

**Rating**: PG

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><p>"I'm hard to forget..."<p>

Roxas swallowed audibly as his friend hooked a finger under his chin and tilted his head upward, forcing blue eyes to meet those of dark, smoldering green.

He felt a flush creep up his neck and into his cheeks.

_Forget_.

It had been all his fault. It was still all his fault now.

"I didn't..." he trailed off, unsure of just what he was going to say. He did. "I mean, I wouldn't," he amended. Except he already had, not so long ago.

Axel waited, expressionless, impassive.

Finally, Roxas found the right words.

"I'll never forget again."

Still, Axel's expression did not change. He tilted his head slightly, as though studying Roxas, but remained silent.

Moments dragged on, and Roxas felt like this might be the end of them both. How could he have been so naive, so easily led astray? He couldn't blame Axel for being angry. He wouldn't protest if he'd had enough and wanted to leave.

Axel leaned down instead, until his face was almost level with Roxas'. Roxas could see with startling clarity how deeply green his friend's eyes were, how darkly colored the tattoos beneath them seemed to have been inked. For a passing moment, he wondered how much they'd hurt to obtain.

He didn't have long to ponder, for Axel was speaking again and Roxas wanted to give him his full attention. It was the least he could do after everything that had happened.

"Good to know," the taller male said, his eyebrows rising just slightly as though amused.

Amused? Amused at what? What about this was funny, Roxas wondered. Again, his thoughts were cut off by the red-head's voice.

"I don't know how you could forget this in the first place, but..."

His words faded out, and for a moment Roxas wondered if he was just as at a loss for words as Roxas himself was right now.

A second later, Roxas felt Axel's lips press roughly against his own.

Like a match lit to oil, Roxas' body came to life, his chest fluttering as though some sort of winged creature lay within. His first instinct was to balk, to back away out of sheer surprise at the action. Axel had anticipated this though, for one arm was at the back of his head, holding Roxas in place quite expertly.

And then his mouth was open to Roxas', roughly probing. And Roxas found he couldn't resist, wouldn't have done so even if he'd wanted to. The fluttering in his stomach itself seemed to have localized. With that localization came intensity, and a slow trickle downward, from chest to stomach, waist and further.

Roxas let out a muffled sound, wholly involuntary, and Axel was quick to respond, pressing his lips harder, his tongue deeper. Almost unconsciously, Roxas felt his hands outstretch, reaching for Axel's hips...

Axel pulled back.

And just like that, it was done, and Roxas was staring, wide-eyed at the person he thought he was about to lose forever. He opened his mouth to respond, although in what way he wouldn't have been pressed to say, but Axel was quick to place an index finger over his lips, silencing him.

"Like I was saying," he said, as though unphased by what had just taken place.

"I don't know how you could forget this in the first place, but..."

He dropped his hand from Roxas' lips, turning to leave. His final words were tossed offhandedly over his shoulder, but even from a distance, Roxas could still hear the smirk in Axel's tone.

"...I'll just have to keep things memorable for you."


	4. Creative Differences (Zemyx)

**Author****'****s ****Note**: As I slave away on Chapter 3 of Bereaved and try not to lose my mind during the holiday season, I wanted to try something new. This time around it was soliciting prompts from some friends on deviantART to get me going.

This shouldn't have taken as long as it did, but guess who might be going in for surgery on their hand because typing is getting excruciating soon? Yeah, so that's my excuse…for lack of non-work-related writing, my lag in responding to correspondence, you name it.

Also, I've never written Zemyx before, don't personally ship the two together. But as you can see from the prompt description below, that's exactly what I tried to write. I'd love some comments as to whether or not it worked out into an acceptable drabble of questionable length. Let me know, k?

**Word****count**: 2,363

**Rating**: K/K+ (G/PG) - Just relationship stuff, guys. Nothing ground-breaking in the least.

**Prompt**: From Loin208 on dA - "something where Demyx is in a band and is away on a tour and Zexion can't write/draw anything that isn't sad or lonely because he misses Demy."

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><p>Three months. That was, approximately, twelve weeks, ninety days, or twenty-one hundred and sixty hours.<p>

But who was counting? Certainly not Zexion. He had better things to do. Deadlines to meet. Art galleries to populate.

Paintings to hopefully sell.

Practically covered in acrylic from head to toe, the blue-haired artist scrutinized his work, stepping over a mixing palette and a few scattered brushes on his studio floor to get a closer look out of his one unobstructed eye.

Detailed. Lines precise, without a doubt. It was also static, no movement. Just like the last five he'd attempted.

Just about the _opposite_ of what he was supposed to be working on.

He'd been signed to show in a gallery in two weeks time. The theme was movement, the show's name Vibrance.

Zexion was, undoubtedly, _unequivocally_ screwed, and he knew it.

Cupping his chin in one hand, entirely unconcerned about the smear of navy paint it would leave, Zexion sighed. He'd have thought he was better than this. How many times had he told himself Demyx was bad news with a capital _everything_? Yet he'd let himself get attached, let himself swoon a little every time the tall blond had done something sweet or even romantic to win his affections.

Now he was gone, and Zexion's paintings all sucked.

Three months. How was he going to get through this?

In fairness, the paintings weren't that terrible. They might even be able to be displayed in some other gallery, at some other point time.

Assuming he didn't starve from lack of funds to buy groceries first.

He'd always been a good sketcher, and fascinated by architecture. In the small town where Zexion had grown up, there weren't many impressive buildings to draw however. For a time, he'd dabbled in portraits, in drawing the people and animals he saw around him. Sometimes a tree or flower even. But something had always come out a little off. Physical movement, displays of emotions… he just couldn't seem to portray them accurately.

Buildings were better. Sculptures were impassive. For awhile, angles and edges were his only friends, and it made tolerating a big city like Chicago — with all its big city noises and big city overcrowding — well… almost tolerable.

But then Demyx had come crashing quite literally into his life, in one impressively coifed flurry of blond hair and blues music. And it had changed everything.

Yes, the crashing had been literal, for if there was one thing Zexion loathed, it was peoples' ignorant use of spoken expressions in general. Literal means truly. It's not there for emphasis. It indicates reality, something that actually happened.

Demyx, quite literally, happened to Zexion.

Zexion sighed, found himself returning to his corner desk to stare dolefully at the myriad of half-finished pictures he'd drawn, all of the tiny coffee shop on the first floor of a much taller building on Ashland Avenue. It was the location where he and Demyx had collided, the former entering while the latter had been running out for a smoke break in between song sets.

Zexion also despised people who smoked.

Pursing his lips a little, he snatched up a few of his rough sketches, bringing them back with him to the small room's center, beneath large fluorescent lights, surrounded by a mix of empty and occupied easels.

He'd meant to show the cafe in different stages of occupancy throughout the course of one night. Yet they'd all come out looking static, the small details making up the street and seen within the cafe's large picture window simply enforcing the notion that the painting was impassive, unmoving. Dead.

From the corner of his desk, Zexion's cell phone began to vibrate. He may not have even noticed it, if not for its sudden dive off the edge and onto the concrete floor.

_That_ got his attention.

Growling a little under his breath and holding back a barrage of curse words — he'd always felt swearing was an exercise for the inarticulate — Zexion made his way across the room to retrieve the wayward phone.

_Demyx_.

A strange mix of excited anticipation and burning irritation flooded through Zexion's chest. Dirty blond haired, blues rocker Demyx was the entire reason he was in this mess right now.

That wasn't entirely true, and Zexion knew it. Technically, Demyx was the only reason he'd been offered the slot at Marluxia's art gallery anyway. Seemed they went way back, probably in a way Zexion would rather not hear anything about without a liberal level of alcohol in his system. Just the same, it'd given him an in, his first opportunity to reach a larger, wealthier audience. It wasn't something he was willing to pass up.

He picked up the call, opened his mouth in greeting…

…and was promptly cut off by the low, crooning voice of his new boyfriend.

"Hey baaaaby," Demyx drawled, an obvious smile in his tone. "Can I, can I …have your num-ber?"

Unexpectedly, irritatingly, Zexion felt a pleasant fluttering begin low in his stomach. Still, he wasn't about to let Demyx off that easily. Zexion was in a fowl, hopeless mood, and a little bit of off-key singing wasn't going to help with that, he thought with spite.

"You obviously already do," he replied, his voice meant to come out cold, falling somewhere between tight and flat-out stressed instead.

Demyx laughed through the line. "I know, right? I must've gotten seriously lucky."

"No kidding," the blue-haired man muttered under his breath, directing a glare at one half-finished canvass as though it were the blond musician himself.

"So, whatcha up to, cutie?" Demyx's tone was good-natured, as though he was just coming down from the high of a show.

Zexion glanced at the digital clock on the far wall. It was two in the morning in Chicago, midnight on the West Coast. That was probably exactly what was going on. And he had very little time before he'd have to pack up and get to bed if he wanted to be coherent for classes tomorrow.

"Still in the studio," he murmured, distracted.

Demyx's voice went instantly sympathetic. "Creative issues, baby," he asked, prompting Zexion to bite the inside of his lip a little.

He'd always hated terms of affection. Cutie. Baby. What was he, five? But Demyx never seemed to tire of them, and Zexion did have to grudgingly admit they were hot to hear whispered against his ear during the few moments of intimacy they'd been able to spend together before Demyx had gotten the news that his band had been chosen to open on the West Coast leg of a national tour.

"You could say that," he replied, the scowl clear in his voice. "Marluxia's going to kill me. Or at least never invite me to show in his gallery again." The last few words came out in a hopeless, negative rush. Demyx made a soft sound of acknowledgement across the line.

"Doubt it, babe. Still working on the cafe set?"

Zexion eyed the works in front of him, willfully ignoring the first comment. "Unfortunately, yes," he said between gritted teeth.

Demyx's tone instantly perked up. "That's great though. It was the night we met, right?"

Still scrutinizing his most recent sketches, Zexion only nodded with a slight sound of acknowledgement. "Mm."

Over the line, it was possible to hear the smile in Demyx's voice. "That night was boss, man. So busy, full of people," his said, his voice turning sly, "so much possibility to run into someone hot."

Yeah. That was pretty much exactly what Zexion didn't like about going anywhere populated. If not at a friend's prodding, he wouldn't have gone at all.

Demyx forged on though, not at all concerned about the lapse in speech two time zones over.

"And the running into turned into the introducing, and the introducing turned into a real date, with some kissing and some…" He trailed off, voice low but laughter audible. "And all this time apart is gonna make me want to introduce myself to you all over again, babe."

The heat creeping up Zexion's neck was palpable at the thought. Shyly, he looked out again at the barrage of unfinished paintings with his one uncovered eye. Unconsciously, he imagined smoky breath at his lips in a way that didn't make him curl them up into a disgusted sneer as was usual whenever he smelled the tell-tale signs of a smoker.

Something missing. In his paintings, in his life. And Zexion was beginning to have an inkling of what it was.

"Oh," he asked, the word forming a question at its end. With a determined look, the blue-haired college student reached for a mixing brush and three light bright tones of acrylic. "And how does one introduce themselves to someone they've already met?"

He was playing along, not something he usually did, not even with someone he really rather liked. Or, at the very least, someone he felt some measure of attraction to, despite his best efforts the quell exactly that.

"Easy," Demyx replied, his tone still light, still perpetually positive.

Lowering himself to a cross-legged position on the canvass tarp covering his floor, Zexion began studiously mixing the three colors he'd chosen. "Tell me, then."

"Well, it involves a bit of acting," Demyx admitted.

"I'm sure." Zexion's lips curved upward into the hint of a smirk.

"And there's the part where I'd have to ram right into you again."

Zexion could almost imagine the suggestive eyebrow waggle from two thousand miles inland.

"Is that an absolute requirement," he asked, voice wry, hiding the steadily increasing flush creeping up his cheeks at the image.

"Oh, definitely," Demyx practically chirped. "And then I have to apologize while I look you up and down, realize you're a total hottie—"

"Are the kids still using that term," Zexion interjected, going for sarcasm but coming off a bit mild as he felt the flush migrate to the tips of his ears.

This time Demyx did laugh. "Sure, why not when it's true?"

Indeed, Zexion thought. He switched the conversation to speaker phone, an unconscious smile lighting his face as he rose, paint palette and brush in hand.

"Anyway," Demyx said, apparently not in the least concerned about the lull in conversation from Chicago, "Then there'd be flirting and you putting me off but me not giving up."

"Sounds familiar," Zexion nodded, making a tentative stroke within the small space of the cafe window on one canvass. An idea was forming in his mind, settling in, taking root.

"And then we'd be pretty much where we are now, unless a few make-out sessions I neglected to mention come to light."

_Light._

Zexion stared.

_People_.

Both had been missing from his paintings. He had, of course, painted them at night, but no light emitted from the windows of the cafe, no people adorned the interior or the streets surrounding it. He didn't like drawing people as focal points in his works, always seemed to leave something essential out. But as supplements to the building? Completely oblivious to his own lapsed side of the conversation, Zexion began scraping off some acrylic with a small, blunt tool. Then to add the lighting colors…

"Hey, Zex? Still there?"

The voice brought him back, forced him away from his work. "Oh. Yes," he responded, voice distracted, distant.

"Everything alright in Chi-town, cutie? You got quiet there for a second."

Slowly, Zexion reached for the phone, switching off the speaker as he lifted it back to his ear, eyes still on the minor changes he'd just implemented on canvass. This could work, this could work.

"Fine, yes," he said vaguely. "I just had an idea about my gallery pieces…"

"…And ya wanted to make sure you got it down before you forgot, am I right?" The smile in Demyx's voice was obvious.

A nearly inaudible sound of acknowledgement came from the back of Zexion's throat, soft but affirmative.

"Coolio. I do that when I'm working on new songs too, y'know, trying to get the right note or chord or word. Or whatever."

Zexion yawned. "You've told me."

It seemed the sound hadn't been lost on Demyx though. "It's almost three over there, babe. You've got school in the morning. Time for you to get to bed, although unfortunately not into mine."

Again, that fluttering, light-headed feeling at Demyx's teasing words. Then, a sudden, embarrassing realization.

"I didn't ask you how your first show went." His tone was guilty. He'd been so wrapped up in his own work that he'd forgotten the reason Demyx had probably called in the first place.

"Aww, that's sweet of you, cutie, but no worries. I can tell ya later. The next budding Picaso needs his beauty sleep, so get going."

Zexion hesitated, half wanting to continue talking, half wanting to patiently explain to Demyx that Picaso had been a cubist, a painter who excelled at abstract works, while he was anything but. The words never left his mouth though, eyes returning to the canvas in front of him.

This was going to work. This was actually going to work. And somehow, in a manner that was entirely unknown to Zexion, Demyx had helped him through it. It defied logic.

"Okay," he conceded, already gathering stray brushes up from the floor. "Will you…" Zexion stopped, trailing off. He'd been about to say something unacceptable, something sickeningly sentimental.

For the first time that evening, there was silence on the other end. Before he could stop himself, Zexion blurted out the rest of the sentence.

"Will you call me again tomorrow?"

How embarrassing to admit his needs like this, his desires. Uncharacteristic to the core.

Demyx laughed, apparently delighted. Zexion was already pulling the phone away from his ear as his new boyfriend murmured the last few words. Yet he heard them, and he'd hold onto them for the next twenty-four hours like he'd never longed for anything before. When the musician next spoke, it was an offering of reassurance or…to Zexion, a promise, even more.

"I wouldn't miss it for the world."


	5. The Con (Org XIII)

**Author's note**: This is my Secret Santa gift for Wolvenhalo on deviantArt (we're both on a writing site together where this exchange originated). One of her wish list gifts was the following prompt: _Anything drabbly with any characters, as a hilarious incompetent team in a room with a blueprint, trying to plan to rob a bank. _

I don't know if this is hilarious, but this team definitely strikes me as incompetent. Hope you like, Emi, and sorry that it's a few days late!

**Word count**: 2,018

**Rating**: K+/PG. Just some swearing and a few suggestive thingy-ma-jigs.

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><p>If ever there was proof Xemnas hated him, Zexion felt certain it was presented in the form of Numbers Eight and Twelve standing before him now.<p>

Those two could bicker something terrible, and it was beginning to grate on his nerves. Heavily.

He couldn't even be certain what they were arguing about, nor did he care. He simply drew the line at seeing his hair go up in flames thanks to a poorly aimed firestorm on Eight's part.

Side-stepping the flame's trajectory by mere inches, the blaze hit the parchment he'd spread out onto a table before them in the small room they were now occupying. Immediately, it singed the edge, flames licking closer and closer to his plans. Moving quickly, Zexion snuffed it out with the arm of his cloak, his colleagues still arguing nearby, oblivious to his growing irritation.

Fixing one visible and clearly irate blue eye on the pair, Zexion spoke in a low dangerous tone. "Either pay attention or get a room, if you feel that's more important than following direct orders. Regardless, shut up, or I will shut you up myself."

Finally, some silence, as venom green eyes met his gaze. "Is that a challenge, Zexion?"

Number Six noted the way his colleague's hands balled into fists and flexed again as though preparing for another attack with obvious disinterest.

"No, Axel," he replied, closing his eyes for a moment in exasperation before fixing a pointed stare toward the red-head. "It's a promise."

Before Eight could react, a gust of wind threw him back against the room's concrete wall, shackles appearing and snapping over his wrists, restraining the red-head quite effectively.

Nearby, a feminine tone snickered, and Zexion turned to regard Number Twelve as well.

"One word, Larxene. _One word_, and you'll be right next to him. I've had enough of this infantile behavior," Zexion said, his voice curt. "You're supposed to be professionals."

The smirk never left her face, but the woman held her tongue. Close enough, Zexion supposed with a barely repressed sigh. Now, maybe they could get something productive done while awaiting the arrival of their fourth accomplice.

He turned back to his salvaged plans.

"Now," he began, voice level and unconcerned, "Twilight First National Bank closes at six." A fine number, as far as Zexion was concerned. If he believed in fate or good fortune, it might even have been better. "They have regular security during their hours of inoperation. I expect you've both read the report I sent earlier as to their projected break times and the optimal time for entry on our part."

Although it wasn't a question, both Twelve and Eight nodded, Eight still flexing experimentally against his bonds.

"Number Six, you can release me now," Eight ventured, voice low, as though the red-head was struggling between a high level of fury and an adequate level of submission.

Zexion did not turn back toward Eight, eyes intently perusing the building plans before him instead. "You can release yourself, Eight, whenever you wish. You know my powers extend to nothing more than a mere illusion."

The fact that Eight began to struggle and still couldn't move from his place at the back wall was noted, although not directly commented upon. The corners of Zexion's mouth did curve slightly upward on one side in a knowing smirk, however.

"The electronic security should pose no issue for Twelve, I expect?"

Although the question was rhetorical, the woman spoke up, making her way toward Eight in the process. "Not a problem at all, sir. In fact, I expect their simple measures of security will fall without issue."

As if to demonstrate, Twelve snapped her fingers, and the crackling sound of static electricity filled the room with bright orange as a small bolt hit Eight, forcing already spiky hair to stand rather violently upright.

"_Fuck_, Larxene!" The words were half-growled as Axel made an attempt to lunge toward the woman, restraints clanging as he was held back in place.

"I'd rather not," Zexion replied mildly, eyes still cast downward, unconcerned.

"Now Eight," he continued, as though nothing had happened, "will take care of any human patrols with what I expect will be the utmost of discretion, given the delicate circumstances of the current assignment." As he spoke, Zexion's one visible eye trailed over the building plans carefully, as though memorizing each detail in tandem. "I, of course, will be monitoring your progress from a safe distance, available to intervene in the event it is necessary. Is this all understood?"

Although Twelve nodded in understanding, Eight's brow furrowed, momentarily distracted from his fury as he seemed to repeat the instructions silently to himself.

"Sir," he said, speaking between gritted teeth, apparently not appreciative of the need for manners under the current circumstances. Zexion looked up, fixing his gaze on Eight, giving him leave to continue.

And continue Eight did, speaking as though he was working through the puzzle as he went.

"If those are our only duties, who is going to be the one to actually enter and carry out the—"

To his right, the sound of a door clicking open cut him off. All eyes on the room turned in the direction of the sound, trained on the new arrival who was entering.

It was Zexion who turned away first.

"You were wondering who would actually retrieve the goods," he said, finishing Eight's question in a smooth, level tone.

Eight simply nodded, eyes still fixed on the new arrival.

"I expect that would be my job," a youthful voice replied.

"Indeed." Zexion nodded. "The last role in our assignment is to be completed by Number Thirteen."

From his place restrained at the back of the room, green eyes widened, nostrils flaring just slightly as the words registered.

"Number _what_?"

Blond hair and blue eyes turned to regard him. From his place across the room, Zexion merely raised one eyebrow. "Last I checked, Eight, there was nothing wrong with your hearing."

Pert pink lips turned up into a tight smile at his superior's comment, returning Eight's gaze with a calm one of his own. Frustrated, Eight clamped his mouth shut, eyes still stuck on the newcomer, unwavering.

Nearby, the woman whistled a bit in awe. "Xemnas inducted a kid into the Organization?"

"He's older than he looks," Zexion was quick to reply, his voice taking on an impatient tone. "It's presumptuous to judge a colleague's strength by their outward physical appearance, wouldn't you agree, Twelve?"

The woman scowled, but said nothing.

"At any rate," Zexion forged onward, "we have work to do."

Dressed in basic checkered street clothes, the newest recruit sauntered forward, stopping a respectful distance from Zexion, but still close enough to look over the plans.

"I expect you're already familiar with the different means of entry and routes toward the main vault?"

Blond hair bobbed in agreement, eyes trained intently on the plans as if verifying. "They're committed to memory, sir."

"Good," Zexion muttered. "At least one of you here is acting like the professional you're all supposed to be."

"That's hardly fair, considering my current position," Eight shot back, much to Zexion's annoyance.

"And by that he means gawking at the newbie like he wants to get in his pants," Twelve quipped.

The blond turned, a picture of innocent surprise on his face. Zexion's expression was far less accommodating.

Before he could speak though, the bonds that held Eight suddenly vanished in a puff of fine mist. Zexion watched as the tall red-head approached Twelve, a menacing expression on his face. Hands clenching and unclenching, Zexion noted the acrid smell of smoke ever increasing within the confines of the small room, flames licking at his fingertips as he got closer. It'd figure Eight would find a way out of his bonds due to a fit of anger rather than by more intellectual means.

"This is highly unprofessional. Axel!"

But Zexion's protests were cut off by a bit of a shriek as Twelve dodged a jet of flames aimed straight at her face.

"What the _fuck_ are you talking about, Larxene," he seethed in what to Zexion appeared to be an attempt at a mighty display of testosterone.

Twelve merely laughed though, eyes trained on Eight. "I know your tastes well enough by now," she practically chirped, dodging another flame aimed her way in the process. A slender finger pointed at Thirteen almost teasingly. "And that one fits the bill almost exactly."

"The hell he does," Eight roared. "He looks like he's fucking twelve."

If he'd have stopped to look, Eight might have noticed the hard glean in a pair of blue eyes, the hand raised to stop Zexion from intervening. As it stood, Eight was pretty much only seeing red at this point. Red and the tail end of a conniving bitch retreating out of his range.

But then blond hair, blue eyes invaded his vision, and a sweet voice called his name.

"Axel, did you say your name was?"

Eight blinked, lowering his hand as he took a step back to regard the new recruit. The boy was smiling, eyes wide, lips tempting.

On second thought, he looked a lot more legal up close…

The boy, Thirteen, leaned in almost conspiratorially. "You might need to help here, me being new and all."

Thirteen stepped closer, and unconsciously Eight took a step back, swallowing hard in the process, Twelve almost entirely forgotten as he tried to think of something — _anything_ — apart from those angelic features in front of him now. He'd finally settled upon Janet Reno by the time he found his back against the same wall he'd been shackled to only a few minutes earlier. And still, Thirteen moved closer.

"I don't mind if you like me," the boy commented, nearly pressing his chest against Eight's own upper body, his voice low and sensual. "I'll take it as a compliment, if you don't mind."

Breathing heavily, an expression of hopefulness entered Eight's features. "Y-you will?"

Thirteen smiled languidly, his hand reaching up to Eight's chest. Slowly, he dragged it downward, ghosting fingers over the leather material of Eight's jacket. Across the room, Zexion raised his eyes in exasperation but held his tongue.

"Of course," Thirteen replied, his voice taking on a soothing quality as his hand slipped ever lower.

Then, as suddenly as it had appeared, the expression was gone, replaced by cold calculation in record time. "What I _won't_ tolerate is fucking up this assignment over something as insignificant as your wounded pride."

Thirteen turned on his heel a moment later, ignoring the stunned look on Eight's face.

"And Axel," he continued, turning to look over one shoulder almost as an afterthought, "learn to pay better attention to your surroundings. Idle hands are…" Thirteen smiled again, revealing a small square of a leather wallet within his grip, before tossing it to an almost gleeful Twelve nearby. "…well, I'm sure you already know that one."

"Fascinating, I'm sure." Pinching the bridge of nose between two fingers in irritation for a moment, Zexion rolled up the bank plans a moment later, tucking them under one arm, before making his way toward the door. Behind him, a smug looking Thirteen took his lead, followed closely by a stupefied Eight and a gloating Twelve.

"I like this new guy," Zexion heard vaguely as he increased the distance between him and what he hoped wouldn't be an utter disaster of an upcoming assignment.

"Your middle name's _Diamonte_?" Another snicker, this time from both Thirteen and Twelve. "Who the hell names their kid Axel Diamonte?"

As he turned a corner, Zexion looked skyward into the concrete ceiling, momentarily wondering if now was a good time to find religion.

"Fuck the fuck off, Larxene. This isn't funny."

The further he got from his crew, the quieter their voices became, until they were just echoes along cold corridor walls.

"If this is how he operates, I can't wait to see Thirteen in action…"

Yes, well, Zexion thought. They would see, wouldn't they? They all, very soon, would see.


	6. Real men wear makeup (AkuRoku)

**Author's note**: Whoo, I'm going out of order now, but I got this idea from a prompt given to me over on deviantArt: _Make-up on a guy_.

I wrote this bad boy in about an hour and a half, which is an improvement for me, time-wise. I usually sit around perfecting these things for days. Go me! Let me know what you think. :]

Also, happy new year! 2012, whoo.

**Word count**: 2,403 (why can't I write drabbles that are shorter than 2K? _Whyyyy_.)

**Rating**: K+/PG because Axel is somewhat of a horndog? I dunno, guys. This is super tame, so K+ might be pushing it.

* * *

><p>Having been assigned a dressing room next to a presidential hopeful and the next big pop start, Axel was beginning to wonder if it had been such a great idea on his part to accept this television interview after all. If he'd known agreeing to appear on the KHII news segment for the "2014 year in review" would be this nerve-wracking, he would've just passed on it, manager's beseeching requests be damned.<p>

He wasn't a celebrity, had nothing to do with politics. Axel was a writer, plain and simple. It wasn't his fault people seemed to like his latest book series. The concept had been meant as a sardonic take on other genres, nearly a parody, just in fictional form. When the first million books had been sold in the US market alone, however, the phone calls had started coming in, and Axel, the reclusive writer who'd never had any interest in publicity, had been forced to have his publisher find him a manager to begin fielding press inquiries.

Thus far, he'd avoided any public appearances, had even gone so far as to have his groceries delivered to his home upstate when he wasn't begrudgingly visiting the city for in-person status updates with his publishing company.

He didn't read reviews on his books, never bothered checking out gossip on his personal life online. Hell, he'd never handed out even one business card to anyone, despite his publisher having given him a batch of 5,000 at their last strategy meeting.

And now he was sitting in a room with a leather couch, a coffee table with a selection of snacky foods arranged to perfection, and a dressing table and mirror. The walls weren't even soundproof. From the next room over, Axel could hear the pop star arguing with her assistant. Pop idol Kairi (no last name) was lamenting her room's poor lighting, and her assistant seemed to be having a mild panic attack trying to appease the starlet.

Axel sat up a little straighter as he listened, bemused. He had never even considered hiring a personal assistant. Why would anyone agree to be subjected to such whiny tripe from a one hit wonder anyway? Money wasn't a stand-in for personal integrity in his mind. Too bad no one else seemed to agree.

His thoughts were interrupted by the clicking open of his dressing room door. Resignedly, Axel looked up …and was greeted by the sight of a well-defined backside.

He blinked, surprised. A moment later the rest of the person appeared, backing into the room and carefully pulling a cart piled with a variety of different sized boxes.

As the man straightened, Axel felt his heart drop into his stomach in an obvious indication of internal attraction. A tuft of yellow-blond hair and bright blue eyes met his gaze as the young man shot him a tentative smile.

"Mr. Cummings," he greeted Axel. "My name's Roxas. I'm here to help prep you for your appearance."

Still staring, all Axel could do was nod and force out a quiet "hi." He'd never seen anyone so …_beautiful_. And was he really falling into this ridiculous attraction-at-first-sight trope? He'd completely maligned the concept in his own novel series in response to other novels that had used it as their main publicity ploy.

Oblivious to the red-head's thoughts, Roxas wheeled his cart over to the dressing table and beckoned to Axel with his free hand. "If it's not too much trouble, the light's better over here," he said.

"Oh." Axel stood immediately and made his way over to the table, sitting a bit awkwardly as Roxas pulled out the chair for him.

"Uh, thanks," he said. It was a strange to see someone treat him so politely. Or be talking to him at all, as a matter of fact.

"Of course," Roxas said, his smile widening a moment before he turned his back to Axel and began rummaging through boxes.

"Your hair's naturally pretty thick, it seems," he said, and Axel looked up, feeling his face flush as his gaze fell on the young man's backside for the second inadvertent time in the past five minutes. "Yeah," he breathed, not really paying attention. "I guess."

Roxas straightened and turned back to him, a myriad of hair supplies in his arms and a bit of a devilish grin on his face. "Mind if I spike it up a bit?"

Axel's eyes widened. "W-what?"

"It's completely up to you," Roxas was quick to reply as he began arranging the supplies on the table in front of them. "I just thought it might give you a bit of a fun edge."

If it'd been anyone but this baby-faced young man in front of him, Axel might have snapped. He wasn't doing this for the fans, but as a favor to a manager who by all accounts worked his ass off making sure Axel was happy and comfortable enough to continue churning out new writing - and money for everyone involved in the process, he figured. That too. It still stood to reason that he shouldn't have to change his appearance for the sake of anyone else. He liked the idea of maintaining a modicum of integrity, after all.

But Roxas was already running sure fingers through his hair, and for some reason completely beyond Axel's ability to comprehend, he found himself nodding a bit. "Yeah," he said again. "I mean," he was quick to amend, "if you think it'll work, okay. Fine."

What the hell?

The blond was already going to work with a bit of a grin, fingers carefully untangling the occasional knot as a brush smoothed out his work a moment later. His hands were soon shielding Axel's eyes from a small mushroom cloud of hair spray.

"Your tattoos really make your cheekbones stand out," Roxas continued, speaking in low tones as he worked.

Every time Roxas addressed him, Axel noticed a pleasant feeling of warmth spread out from his chest into his limbs. Good god.

"I-is that a good thing?" Since when had he ever stuttered when speaking to someone else, Axel berated himself. This had to be a new low.

Roxas stopped and took a step back to survey his work. "Obviously," he said. "Hasn't anyone told you before?"

"Uh…" Axel found himself at a loss for words, not actually wanting to admit he rarely spoke to anyone outside of a professional context.

Roxas turned back to his collection of boxes, unconcerned. "That's right. I forgot," he said, voice muffled as he dug deeper through a black and white box with a checkerboard pattern. "You're a bit reclusive. A writer of some sort?"

Axel looked up, surprised. "You haven't read my books?"

Turning to look over a shoulder, Roxas shot him a shy smile. "Sorry, nope. I've been pretty busy getting my cosmetology certificate and with this internship here. No time for fun reading."

Finished rummaging, Roxas headed back toward Axel. "I've heard they're really good though," he offered.

Axel nodded acknowledgement but didn't say anything. It was so strange to encounter someone who wasn't familiar with his works. The way his agent spoke, everyone in the known world had read them by now. In a way, this was a refreshing experience, if entirely unexpected.

He was so caught up in his thoughts, he hardly even noted when Roxas moved forward to place a black towel over his chest. As the blond moved to tie it around his neck and secure it in place, Axel felt a pleasant tingle go up his spine as delicate, pale hands brushed against the bare skin of his neck.

"Have I offended you?" A soft voice that made the feeling intensify in Axel's chest met his ears.

Vehemently, Axel shook his head. "Actually, I was just wondering how that Kairi singer person, uh, thing…would have responded to being told someone had never heard her songs."

Axel could almost hear the smirk in Roxas' voice when he next spoke. "Oh, I'm pretty sure I know the reaction already."

Looking at the stylist expectantly, Roxas had Axel's full attention. "Hmm?"

With a bit of a conspiratorial wink that made Axel feel so light-headed he was surprised he didn't faint right there in his dressing room seat, Roxas grabbed his checkerboard patterned box and moved to place it on the table in front of them both.

"Let's just say there's a reason I prefer to style men instead of women when it comes to you celebrity types."

Before Axel could react further, he sat transfixed as Roxas pulled out what looked like a humongous cotton ball. His eyes widened with realization a moment too late.

"Don't worry," Roxas said, misinterpreting the expression. "I'll make sure to keep the tattoos nice and crisp."

Before he could process what he was doing, Axel stood up. "That's makeup," he said, voice accusing.

Roxas regarded him with curious eyes. "That's what it is, yeah."

Stepping away from his seat, Axel shook his head. "It's fine. I don't need that."

Roxas matched his retreat with an approach of his own. "Oh, I think you do, Mr. Cummings."

"Axel," the red-head sputtered. Roxas cocked his head a bit. "Just call me Axel."

Roxas smiled, the look somewhat indulgent. "Okay, Axel. You still need to let me apply this powder."

Axel eyed the cotton ball suspiciously. "Why?"

Still smiling, Roxas placed the makeup tool back onto the dressing table before speaking again. "Because the studio lights are incredibly bright," he explained patiently, "and you'll look somewhere between a zombie and a vampire if I don't help darken your skin tone a bit."

Not entirely convinced, Axel merely shot him a helpless look. "Um…"

Roxas was quick to react, stepping forward and taking Axel's hand in his own. "It's not a big deal," he said, his voice smooth and reassuring. "It's a standard procedure for guests on this show. Everyone has it done. Even the male politicians."

Axel didn't look persuaded, although with Roxas touching his hand this way, he found his protests becoming weaker by the minute. "But it's _makeup.._."

"Yes, well, you let me use product on your hair, and that didn't seem to bother you," Roxas pointed out.

Axel opened his mouth to form a reply but no sound came out as he considered the blond's words. Trying to be subtle, Axel shifted his gaze and stole a look at himself in the mirror. His normally unruly red hair stood up in crisp yet natural looking spikes. It was actually pretty impressive work.

"Okay, fine," he conceded, allowing himself to be led back toward his chair. "On one condition."

Roxas paused, looking at him expectantly.

Oh, shit. Had he actually said that out loud?

Looking down, Axel returned to his seat. "Never mind," he muttered, feeling heat creep up into his neck.

For his part, Roxas said nothing, simply went to work on Axel's face as the man before him lapsed into silence. Roxas' ministrations on his face felt weird, but not entirely unpleasant. Just the mere fact that Roxas was _touching_ him was distracting in and of itself. Axel found his eyes wandering, taking in the blond beside him as often and discreetly as possible.

By the time Roxas was finished, Axel felt like a complete fool, his face obviously powdered up in all manner of substances traditionally meant for females. Upon seeing his somewhat stricken look, Roxas laughed. It was a light, airy sound. Again, Axel felt his breath catch.

"Don't worry. The lights in the studio are a lot brighter than here," Roxas said. "Between that and the way the camera distorts images and colors, no one will be able to tell you're wearing anything other than your own skin."

Axel looked down, still unconvinced. "Thanks," he said, feeling a bit of a letdown as he watched Roxas pack up his supplies. This had been a bad idea from the start and he knew it. He hated dealing with people, and now he was going to be broadcast to millions of them. Christ almighty.

"I'm not much for gossip," Roxas broke into his thoughts suddenly, "but does the great Axel Cummings have a significant other, by chance?"

Axel looked up sharply, prepared to rebuke Roxas. His private life was none of anyone's business.

But that look. That open, friendly look. It made the harsh words die in his throat before he could even begin to say anything.

"Not really. I mean, no, I don't," he stumbled through the words. "Uh, why do you ask?"

Roxas was smiling, a small but defining feature in his current expression. "I was wondering if he might like one?"

The way he said it left no room for wondering what was implied there, yet Axel found himself asking anyway. "You mean, you and me?"

Snapping his makeup box shut, Roxas' smile turned into a full-out grin. "Well, unless you'd prefer Kairi. I could always try to set something up for you two if you prefer."

Before he could respond, the door opened, and a voice called out. "Axel Cummings needed on set in five minutes."

Axel stood, a bundle of nerves suddenly releasing into his stomach. "I-I can't…I mean I have to…" He trailed off, unsure exactly what to say.

Wheeling his cart out into the hall, Roxas laid a reassuring hand on Axel's back. "You don't have to decide now. But if you're interested, I can give you my number if you have something to write on, in case we don't cross paths after the show."

His number. Something to write on. Holy shit.

Suddenly making the connection, Axel shoved a hand into his shirt pocket, emerging with one of the 5,000 business cards he figured he'd never use. He handed it over to Roxas who, with a toothy grin of his own, snapped open another makeup box, pulling out a red tube of lipstick. He scribbled his number on the back of the card in a practiced flourish before returning it to Axel.

"Might want to sandwich it between two cards so it doesn't smear onto the inside of your pocket," Roxas said, voice lightly teasing.

A moment later, Axel was being pulled away toward the set, grinning somewhat idiotically from ear to ear at the thought of blond hair, blue eyes, and some business cards that had ended up being more useful than he ever could have imagined.


	7. Room with a view (SoRiku)

**Author's note**: So, my girlfriend and I have super limited time to write. I work full-time and do loads of other offline stuff. She goes to school like a boss.

We've started doing what I'll just call "randomizer wordsprints." What this means is we come up with 5 writing prompts and 5 Kingdom Hearts pairings, then go shoot them through a random selection program online. Whatever prompt and pairing we get, we go with, for about 30 minutes (which is probably why this one has the potential to SUCK but is also shorter than I usually end up writing).

Last night's theme was smut. Here's what I got.

**Prompt**: It's not so bad being able to look right into your neighbor's house from your own window if he's hot, right?

**Pairing**: SoRiku

**Word count**: 1,026

**Rating**: M for masturbation.

…no, really. I'm serious.

* * *

><p>Sweating, breathless, overwhelmingly hot. Riku felt himself groan a little, unable to suppress the needy sound, as he made his way into the bedroom as quickly as possible.<p>

Oh god, he thought. So much heat.

Once inside, he wasted no time stripping off his clothing. Hands lifting the shirt over his head, he couldn't help but let out another soft sound from the back of his throat.

Unquestionably sweaty, yes. Unbearably hot, naturally. Without a doubt, Riku felt like unadulterated shit.

A long day at his construction job had left him grimy and exhausted, sore and in dire need of a shower. That's exactly where he headed now without another thought in the world about anything. Except maybe soap. And, subsequently, sleep.

The idea of a hot shower wasn't appealing in his current state, a cold one even less so. Riku compromised by turning the water on lukewarm, letting it soak out the heat of his sunburn but not give him too much of a chill in the process.

No, that was the open window's job, as he'd forgotten to close the fucking thing before leaving for work in the morning. What an unpleasant surprise.

Of all the places to put a window, this one happened to be right on the shower wall. At one point, he guessed, the full bathtub had only been a shower stall, the window located right next to it, not inside like it was now. But then his landlord had done renovations not long before he'd moved in. It was easier to build around a window than to fill it and carve out another one completely. Who knew?

Now, as he moved to shut it, Riku's tired gaze landed on something he least expected — another figure, in another window, just across the way.

He didn't really know his neighbors, just knew they had a son. Some high school senior. Maybe a first year college student. He couldn't remember, hadn't cared at the time. His landlord was a nosy bitch, which was just about the opposite of what Riku considered himself most days. The fact that she talked enough about their neighbors for him to even know this one's approximate age was more gossip than Riku cared to deal with in a lifetime, let alone during a one-year lease.

The boy had just appeared in front of his window, brown hair matted in some areas, spiked awkwardly in others. He was wearing some sort of sports uniform, a jersey on top, shorts underneath.

And, standing immediately in front of a large picture window, the boy was shrugging out of his shirt.

Involuntarily, Riku felt a stirring in his mid-section when the other boy's stomach muscles flexed as he struggled to pull the top over his head. The boy's shorts were low on his waist, showcasing a lean but toned stomach.

Maybe it was his exhaustion. Maybe it was because he hadn't had a good fuck in months thanks to this godforsaken job. Whatever the case, Riku was hard in a matter of seconds.

A moment later he turned away. Jesus Christ, he was perving on a kid. So what if he was eighteen? He was still several years Riku's junior and not his type at all. Scrawny even. Nothing Riku would've looked at twice if he'd been in a social setting and on the prowl.

Then why was he touching himself, hand snaking around his cock like he was getting ready to watch a show?

The boy was moving around his room, unaware that his neighbor was a grade-A pervert only a handful of yards away. He was screwing around with his cell phone or something, from what little Riku could see, then digging through his dresser, bending at the waist as he presumably searched out some clean clothing.

All he needed was a view of the boy's ass, bent over on full display, contours teasingly but subtly outlined, and Riku's imagination was off. So the kid wasn't technically his type. He still preferred to be the larger in any pairing, still liked to be in control. With that kid, he definitely would be.

He imagined the look of surprise he might elicit from the other guy if he were to press him right up against that nearby wall, hand immediately cupping his crotch, kneading and anticipating a growing bulge. He imagined the boy's soft panting as he began to harden, maybe some light whimpering as Riku sucked on his neck, playing a tongue over sensitive, salty flesh. A virgin naturally, the sounds he'd let out would be addicting.

In the shower, Riku stroked himself, allowing a quiet moan of longing at the thought.

Across the way, the boy stood, pajama pants in hand and, without a second glance at his own exposed window, slipped out of his sporting shorts in plain view of Riku's salacious gaze.

The silvery haired man's jaw dropped, hand pumping faster as he strained to memorize the contours of the boy's lower body: thin but leanly muscled legs, narrow hips, impossibly tight ass. What would it feel like to thrust into an ass that looked like that? _Mm_. Tightening his grip on his own cock, Riku could do more than imagine. And the sounds that boy would make, that Riku would _make sure_ he made. _Nnngh, yeah_.

It was over in a moment, both the boy's fleeting nudity and Riku's own lustful thoughts, as one pulled on pants and the other began to pant through a heated release.

Long after the boy had turned the lights out in his own room and Riku had finished with his shower, he found himself awake, body still sore and aching, but undeniably satisfied.

For now.

The thought had occurred to him that this should probably be a one-time thing, but where was the fun in that when one had such an avidly athletic next door neighbor and a gossipy landlord at hand?

This time tomorrow, Riku figured he might even have a name to go with his newest little obsession of a sexual fantasy. In fact, he was pretty certain he'd make sure of it.


	8. Fitting In (Roxas)

**A/N**: Er, wtf? I just logged into my deviantart account for the first time in YEARS, and I find a drabble that I don't even remember writing. Apparently it was the first one I wrote back in September 2011 or something. It really could be the opening chapter of a new fic but since I have other story ideas floating around in my head (and am dead-set on finishing _Bereaved_ and _Holier Than Thou_ before doing anything else), I'm just gonna leave this here and consider it done.

If there's enough interest (lol, there's totally not gonna be), I might consider ideas or suggestions to lengthen this. At present, I have none, however. Peace out, homies, and enjoy the mystery. If you particularly like/hate it, feel free to let me know in a review as well.

**Rating**: K. Or G. It's been so long since I've been on this site, I can't remember which rating is which at the moment (apart from the M one, of course).

* * *

><p>Getting accustomed to a new school isn't as difficult as most people make it out to be. That's a fact, unless you end up missing a step on the largest stairwell known to mankind and take down a cheerleader along the way. In front of her boyfriend who's two times your size, naturally.<p>

Suffice to say there's a reason the bruise across my entire left side is jock-sized and fist-shaped, as opposed to looking like something less threatening such as, for example, the stairwell's railing.

Thanks, Seifer Kincaid. Remind me to name a character in my next creative writing assignment after you. Remind me to have him die an equally creative and ultimately painful death too because I'm pathetic and that's probably the only justice I'm ever going to get when it comes to letter jacket jocks. I'm not exactly a hulk here.

The worst part about the entire thing is that I've been assigned an upperclassman's dorm room. With other upperclassmen. Because people who transfer in a week after school starts don't get to be choosy about their accommodations. We should just be thankful there's space left at all, according to the new matriculate admin.

Shoot me for having my parents both die at a time that's inconvenient for the school.

The weird thing about it all? I don't feel sad. Or all that lonely or grief-stricken, which probably makes me sound like a horrible little monster. Maybe I am one. The only thing that's really reassuring me I'm not is that I think I'm still a bit in shock. Because I don't even remember the funeral or why I've been sent to New Haven School in the first place. I'd say I want to go home but I don't even remember where home is.

And that's when I force myself to stop thinking about it, about them, because no matter how shell-shocked I am, it's not normal not to be able to remember what your home looked like less than a week removed from having lived in it.

My last period of the day is creative writing, my one and only elective. I picked it because I figured it'd be easy to pull something repeatedly out of my ass over the course of a semester. I've been doing it my whole life apparently, so why not get credit for it for once?

That teacher, Ms. Pearson, has apparently heard my story. I can tell just by the look on her face. And because I'm already a week behind, it makes sense to let me skip off to my dormitory early and get even further behind, at least to her. With a gentle pat on the back and a conspiratorial wink, she sends me off, with all the course materials I'll apparently need to be ready to get up to speed before tomorrow. Let's hope.

My assigned dorm is empty when I arrive. Everyone's either still in class or outside doing something athletic in the name of school spirit. A trunk of my belongings sits beneath the bed that's also presumably mine, one of four in this junior-designated living space. To the school's credit, the bed looks comfortable.

Lowering myself onto the comforter with an undignified 'plop', I give my school uniform a once-over: neatly pressed khakis, white Oxford with the school's crest on the right pocket, and a sleek navy tie. When it begins to get colder, I'll put on the matching navy coat.

_I much prefer black...and for him to be taking it off._

A flash of red engulfs my vision. My body tenses, alights, as I sense more than see a hint of a smile.

And then it's gone, whatever 'it' was in the first place, and I'm here alone again, feeling like I'm losing it. I don't know what this latter 'it' is either since it doesn't feel like I have much more to lose, but I know it's something enough to make my eyes tear up. Rapid blinking takes care of that potential emotional giveaway, at least. I stand and make my way to the nearest dresser mirror. No point in getting called out as a sissy. Or a fag. Or whatever words students at this school use as insults against almost crying boys.

My reflection reveals a chunk of blond hair near the back of my head, out of place and sticking up at an odd angle. Just great. It probably got ruffled up during my tumble down the stairs earlier. Good luck getting that back in place, given how thick my hair happens to be.

At least my eyes don't seem to be as much of a lost cause. The shade of blue I see is a little brighter, a littler clearer than their normal color, but nothing that'd hint at tears.

My eyes return to the misplaced tuft of hair. Biting my lip a little has always been an unconscious thing I end up doing when I'm frustrated or deeply concentrating. I do it now as I attempt in vain to flatten that bastard piece of hair. No luck, as expected.

I stick my tongue out at the image staring back at me. My face is a perfect example of annoyance, personified.

I probably don't have to describe the next emotion that courses through me when I catch a glimpse of reflected movement from behind. It's fairly obvious what someone in my position would feel, meeting the gaze of another student who's gawking at me from the bedroom doorway.

What was that about fitting in I'd mentioned earlier? Piece of (moldy, likely poisoned) cake.


	9. Agony's Equation (Bereaved supplement)

**A/N**: omfg, another one from my deviantart account I hardly remember writing.

Given the content, my guess is this was a supplement to _Bereaved_, something I was just mucking around with while I was trying to settle on the relationship dynamics between the Axel and Roxas in that story. It's a short one, but that's what this folder's for, so here it comes.

**Rated**: PG, for ideologically sensitive material/non-explicit references of self-injury.

* * *

><p>It was times like these that shook him, times like these when he knew it'd be safer to talk to someone else.<p>

But to whom?

Axel was the obvious answer, but that was also why he knew he had to remain silent. There were some things better left unsaid, some things that even your lover couldn't understand.

So, as Axel slept, Roxas rose, careful not to disturb the mattress too much. He rose and made his way towards the bathroom and the cupboard within.

_Fingers grasped, arms clasped, you are nothing, nothing, a nothing._

His shoulders trembled as he took in a shuddering breath. He would not cry, only observe. That was his promise to himself.

Observation 1: Red looked so much better on Axel.

Plus, observation 2: Axel was not in bed when Roxas returned to the room.

Equals: He felt his body go numb for a moment, as a wave of panic washed over him. Where would Axel be? Why wasn't he where he'd left him? Had something happened he could've prevented? In his half-asleep state of mind, the possibilities warped into countless worrisome conclusions.

The sound of a throat clearing behind him made Roxas whirl around, a wild, confused look in his eyes as he noted Axel's silhouette leaning against the bedroom's far wall, arms crossed.

Carry the remainder: Guilt and shame were both emotions that could be easily multiplied, under just the right circumstances.


	10. Logic Dictates, A Mind Rebels (AkuZeku)

**A/N**: This is the first snippet I wrote for an approximately 80K word co-written story on a separate FFN account. I figured I'd share it on here, because that's what this specific section is for - snippets and drabbles o' mine.

**Full story teaser**: College junior Zexion wants nothing more than for Axel to notice him, to see him as more than a one-night stand. Between the reappearance of Axel's ex-boyfriend and his murky connections to the mob, however, Zexion might soon discover the attention he was seeking may be just the start of his dating problems.

**Rating**: T for this section. M for the story as a whole. If you want to read it, PM me and I'll link you to the account it's hosted on privately.

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><p>He'd needed an escape, some time to breathe and think, away from his family's home and their schemings and dealings.<p>

Time to breathe and think, exactly. Except it seemed he'd forgotten the bit about thinking, because the moment he began to imagine working with Tonio — about working _under_ Tonio — his blood began to boil.

Axel Damato did not like taking orders, least of all from some simple-minded crony in his parents' employ.

He'd left the estate they were staying at in a fiery huff, no more considering where he was headed than an animal of prey fleeing hot pursuit. It was simple luck that he'd encountered a chatty couple along his way. One mention of a college party and all he'd had to do was follow a safe distance behind. Quite suddenly he had plans for the evening, even if they had been obtained through inadvertent and uninvited means.

He paid the bouncer off. Maybe it wasn't the most suave move on his part, but Axel hadn't wanted the party to end as a result of any of his flashier antics. For once.

He'd grabbed a seat, ignoring an advance and a few interested looks from females nearby. Women had never been any fun for Axel. They submitted far too easily, in his experience.

For a time, he simply remained seated, quietly contemplative about this newest assignment. By all accounts, Tonio was an imbecile. He didn't want to work with someone who'd almost certainly fuck up the planned transaction. The only reason his father liked that shithead so much was because he kissed ass like no other. Axel saw right through it. If his father didn't, it was obvious he was becoming senile.

But thinking was getting boring, and as more people began to show up Axel found himself ordering drink after intoxicating drink. He liked feeling the pulse of the music, enjoyed watching other people swarm past him, parting around him like river water flowing past a large rock. Some were in groups, while others still sought out someone to go home with at the end of the night. It was a college party of some sort, he'd gathered already, and that's where he'd stopped in his analysis.

College was for sheep, those who couldn't think for themselves. _Or those who'd never get accepted due to a not quite expunged juvenile record_, he thought with only a hint of irony. This was a college town, but a small one, where wealthy East Coast children of politicians, of lawyers and doctors and socialites mingled almost arrogantly with the scholarship kids who made up for their humble origins with marginally more brilliant intellect.

In short, two sides of the same, uninteresting coin.

"Do you…are you…er, a new student?"

A voice range out behind his right shoulder. Slowly, Axel turned in a manner that implied he had no concern whatsoever in the world.

He raised an eyebrow, as if to rhetorically say 'what do you think?' but didn't turn away.

The young man beside him seemed to flush but there was an eager, determined look in his eyes. It was almost endearing, how interested in him the other male outwardly appeared. And it gave Axel an idea.

"Sit," he said, inclining his head to the empty seat beside him. The boy complied almost immediately, although it was obvious at this point he was already beginning to feel the effects of whatever he'd had to drink before approaching and making what appeared to be his move.

And then, silence as Axel sized him up. Longish, blue-ish dyed hair, shorter in stature than him (but then, who wasn't?), with a good figure and attractive features, the young man seemed to be getting more nervous as the minutes ticked by.

"Zexion," the boy offered at long last. When his companion remained silent, he continued, a bit more quietly with his introduction. "…is my name."

Still no response from Axel. He knew what drawing things out did to people, no matter what the circumstances. As a waiter passed by, Axel lifted his shot glass, and indicated he wanted another two with his free hand.

"What is…I mean, so you're not a student at St. Merritt, then?"

As the waiter plonked down two new sets of shots, Axel allowed a slow, sensual smile to rise onto his lips. He leaned forward toward Zexion until his mouth was only inches away from the other male's ear. "The name's Axel," he breathed, allowing his voice to become low and husky as he spoke, hot breath tickling his companion's exposed neck. "Try not to forget it."

A moment later, he pulled away and in one smooth motion reached for Zexion's closest arm and a nearby salt shaker. "And no," he continued, sprinkling a light layer of salt on the other boy's wrist. "I'm not a student."

With a sly smile, he'd raised Zexion's hand to his mouth and slowly pressed his lips over the other boy's wrist, making sure to rake his teeth lightly against the skin as he retrieved the salt with his mouth.

Grabbing one of the shot glasses from the table, he eyed the other male with a suggestive curve of his lips. "I'd put money on being able to teach you a thing or two anyway though."

He downed the shot in one smooth motion, enjoying the shell-shocked look on his new acquaintance's face out of the corner of his eye.

The rest of the night had gone by in a blur of rough kisses, tongues, and petting. It had been Zexion who had offered his dorm room for the evening, and who was Axel to turn down an offer of another distraction, personally?

The sex was good, and he'd savor pieces of it later in private when he needed other escapes from having to deal with Tonio (who, incidentally, _had_ managed to fuck up the transaction just enough to finally piss his father off).

It had been enjoyable, yes, but Axel hadn't stayed, hadn't even bothered to leave his number before departing early the next morning, head buzzing from a hangover of impressive proportions. Apart from fleeting moments, he hadn't even thought of the strangely-named college boy again either.

…until now that he felt an urge to stop in for a drink at a bar he rarely ever visited.

Well, well. Look who was one of the scholarship kids.

After a migraine-inducing three weeks of working with Tonio, Axel didn't particularly feel like dealing with what might potentially pose another headache at the moment.

His desire for a drink won out over his inclination to turn heel and leave however. That, and he wouldn't have it said that Axel Damato was a coward, by anyone, anywhere.

He approached the bar with a hint of a swagger, well aware that his every move was being subtly watched by the other male.

"I'm looking to try something new," he drawled, speaking as though he hadn't just recently pinned the other boy's arms above his head and ground his hips simply to hear the other's exuberant moans, to enjoy the feeling of the friction between their two bodies. As far as he was concerned, it was the other's option to bring it up. Or not. It hardly mattered to him.

When the young man didn't initially respond, Axel continued, unconcerned.

"Any suggestions?"


	11. Sight of the Sun (SoRiku AU)

**A/N**: So, this longish one-shot is actually the epilogue for a back-and-forth RP-style SoRiku story my ex and I wrote years ago. Years after our breakup, I finished compiling what we'd written and began posting it up on our old shared FFN account (username: frozenwhispers) under the title "Truth or Dare".

That fic got a decent amount of positive reviews (even though, god, I'm embarrassed by the quality of the prose itself), but it cut off abruptly midway through Sora, Kairi, and Riku's first year of college (because, awkward much, my writing partner and I broke up). The reviews and PMs were so great, however, I wanted to offer readers a bit of a consolation prize in the form of a follow-up epilogue taking place 10 years later so they'd at least know where some of the main characters ended up. This one-shot reads as a regular story and explains some of the events that took place in the original fic in such a way that I think it's also fine to post it up here as a complete stand-alone piece of prose. So, if you wanna schlep your way through 100K words of the original fic, mosey on over to the account username I mentioned above.

Otherwise, just consider this an AU SoRiku story set when the two of them are in their late 20s.

**Rating**: M - the second section here is a complete lemon. I know I don't usually write explicitly intimate scenes in most of my chaptered stories, but I'm serious about the level of unambiguously described detail here. I was just trying to remain true to the content and rating in the original fic. You know, for science.

**Pairings/character appearances**: Sora/Riku, Kairi/Tidus, Marluxia, with short references to Zexion and Demyx (the latter of which offers a crossover explanation to where those two ended up years after the events in my other fic, "Bereaved").

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><p><em>For once, there is nothing up my sleeve<em>

_Just some scars from a life that used to trouble me_

_I used to run at first sight of the sun_

_Now I lay here, waiting for you to wake up_

"Sight of the Sun" - fun.

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><p>Light was just beginning to creep through the bedroom shades when Sora opened his eyes. For a moment, he remained still, slowly blinking the last dregs of sleepiness away. It took him a moment longer to realize what day it was, and what this day meant to him, specifically.<p>

His body immediately tensed, a jolt of nervous energy shooting out from his stomach and into his limbs. He'd been waiting what seemed like ages, had been anticipating it with barely concealed eagerness for the past several months.

And yet…

Beside him, another shifted, still asleep, rolling from his back onto one side, taking some of the covers with him. Sora held his breath, but his bedmate didn't awaken. He listened to the steady, deep breaths indicating deep sleep before carefully, noiselessly, sliding out of bed.

Sora dressed quickly, slipping into a pair of tailored jeans and a fitted t-shirt, his days of baggy clothing long ago abandoned in favor of attire more suited to show off his slender figure. He also retrieved a messenger bag at the foot of the bed before taking the stairs by two on the way toward the downstairs entryway. Hesitating by the front door, Sora's eyes darted to the nearest window, scrutinizing. It was sunny out, but there was a haziness to the light. Opting to play it safe rather than sorry when it came to the weather, he snatched a zip-up hoodie off a coat hanger near the door, sliding it on as he made his way out into the early morning air.

The air was brisk for July, and Sora quickly found himself grateful for the added warmth of his sweatshirt. Leave it to San Francisco to be utterly chilly in what should've otherwise been one of the warmest months of the year. It was definitely a change he was still getting used to, compared with childhood summers spend living on the Mid-Atlantic Coast.

He made his way two blocks up toward Market Street, the main throughway that connected the downtown area to his own residence in Duboce Triangle. It was still hard for him to believe the house was his. Theirs, actually. Although Sora had been no stranger to lavish lifestyles growing up, the years in between then and now had been lean, requiring a frugality he'd never before had to endure in order to make ends meet. At least he'd managed to finish college, he thought, even if it'd taken him a little longer than anticipated. He hadn't graduated with a degree from a prestigious university, just one from a local state school, but he _had_ graduated. After the drama with his parents, after the falling out with Kairi as a result, that in itself had been an accomplishment. Ultimately, Riku had helped him afford the completion of his education at the expense of his own.

He passed a pair of neighbors out walking their dog, two men strolling hand-in-hand along the groomed sidewalk in the opposite direction, most likely toward a nearby park. They smiled, waving at him, and he returned both gestures with practiced ease.

His childhood had not prepared him for places like this, areas where it wasn't just acceptable for two men or women to hold hands, but expected. This was a place where people even came from out of town, to view historically significant LGBT landmarks but also to go clubbing or out to dinner in the evenings. This was a place he was finally starting to see as home.

Reaching Market Street, Sora waited for the traffic light to change, eyeing passersby who were also out this early, a few of them straight, but most were gay locals he recognized. Then there was Sora who ended up falling somewhere in between. It'd taken him awhile to accept that orientation wasn't always as black and white for some people as it was for others.

And in some weird, screwed up way, he mused, none of this would have been possible if not for Kairi, without what was at the time an agonizing, life changing betrayal. Idly, he wondered if his childhood friend realized just how much she had changed his life, first for the worse, but ultimately for the better. And, if not, one of these days he was really, truly determined to make sure to tell her.

He crossed Market, quickening his pace, passing two gyms and one therapy center that oversaw support groups for virtually every conceivable demographic of the LGBT community, before ducking into a small bakery on the corner of two intersecting streets.

The smell of coffee and fresh, doughy bread teased his senses as he made his way up to the counter to order two long loafs of bread and a bag of dark roast coffee beans. Depositing his purchases into his messenger bag, Sora exited the bakery, taking a shortcut home that would lead him straight to his last errand, assuming it happened to be open this early on a Sunday morning.

Fortunately, the small flower stand was just opening, its owner circling the modest portable space as he organized his wares for the day in aesthetically pleasing arrangements.

Sora was almost upon him when the seller turned and, seeing his first potential customer, broke into a wide, welcoming smile.

"Darling," the pink-haired man said, "it's certainly been awhile."

"Hey, Marluxia," Sora said, offering the seller a friendly smile. "Yeah, Riku and I have been in super deep with work on the business lately."

Marluxia made a sympathetic sound at the back of his throat. "Isn't that why you hired that numbers guy you mentioned last time? To help lighten the load?"

"He's been great so far, yeah, but we're still pretty busy," Sora replied, nodding. "He has a background in web development too, so he's been a lifesaver for Riku with troubleshooting some of the back-end stuff that I personally…" here, Sora chuckled quietly. "…have pretty much zero clue about."

Zexion had definitely been a lucky find, Sora thought. Even more coincidentally, he happened to be an alumnus from their first school, had ended up in the Bay Area, his ever-present blond musician friend in tow, just a few months after Sora and Riku had arrived themselves. It was weird to think there had been other gay guys on campus, just quietly getting through classes, trying not to stand out, Sora thought. It hadn't been something he'd ever been good at, staying quiet about anything as integral to his identity as who he chose to love. Zexion was definitely more circumspect than him though, that was for sure. Just like Riku. Sora guessed that's why he, on the other hand, had always excelled at more front-facing aspects of their business, in marketing and public relations, while Riku and Zexion worked on keeping everything together behind the scenes with the app's actual framework.

"You and me both," Marluxia said, breaking Sora out of his thoughts. "Give me people over Python or Pascal, or whatever language you're using to code that app of yours, any day of the week."

Sora grinned. "So, maybe I went into the wrong field then, 'cause it seems like you know everyone around here, Marly."

The man turned to wave to another pair of passersby before shooting Sora a flirty, good-natured look. "Only the cute ones worth talking to, sweetie, of course."

"Of course," Sora echoed, bouncing on his heels in place a little as his eyes traveled over Marluxia's floral wares.

"Ah, you've come to buy something today," Marluxia said, homing in on Sora's line of sight with the expertise of a businessman aware of how to spot the possibility of a sale.

Sora nodded. "We've got company later, so I was thinking an arrangement might brighten up the kitchen. Maybe the guest room too," he added.

"Any particular color preference?" Sora could already see Marluxia's mind working its way through an array of options.

"Not really," Sora replied, eyeing a batch of brightly colors flowers nearby. They were a reddish orange and reminded him of the sunsets he and Riku would often hike up neighboring Twin Peaks to see, along with the entire span of the city spread out before them as an added, breathtaking bonus. "Although I do like these orange ones," he ended up adding.

"Lovely choice," Marluxia said. "I can put together an arrangement in that palette for the kitchen. Then something similar, maybe a little more muted for the bedroom?"

Sora inclined his head in agreement. "That sounds good. Sure."

The florist got to work while Sora waited, sliding his hand under his messenger bag strap to adjust it into a more comfortable position on his shoulder. Truth be told, he was getting a little antsy at the thought of this upcoming reunion. This was the first time anyone from back home — anyone from what he now considered his past life, even — had come to visit. It had been almost a decade now, and although he was hopeful, he still didn't entirely have a good idea of what to expect.

Marluxia hummed as he worked, clipping flower stems and scrutinizing their placement within two translucent vases. As he waited, Sora found himself fiddling idly with the dark onyx ring on his right hand. Riku had a matching one, something they'd gifted one another a few years ago, not so much an indication of engagement as a promise, very simply, to always be there for one another.

"Okay," Marluxia said, straightening and turning back toward Sora. "What do you think?"

True to his word, Marluxia had created one arrangement of brilliant red-orange flowers, their vivid coloring complemented by the papery delicateness of the flowers he'd chosen.

"Those are poppies, right?" Sora asked, pointing toward the first arrangement. "And the others," he said, turning to the taller, lighter set, "are…tulips?"

"Good eye! Both are right."

Sora offered Marluxia a bright grin. "Well, I do come around here pretty often," he said. "And I think they both look great. How much do I owe you?"

Marluxia quoted a figure, and Sora passed him payment, watching as the pink-haired man slid his credit card through the white square payment reader attached to his smartphone. "I'll email you the receipt," Marluxia said before turning and helping load both floral arrangements into Sora's waiting arms. He shot Sora a smile before the brunet turned to depart, calling out a farewell before returning to his kiosk. "Have a good time with your guests, dear."

o - o

The house was still silent when Sora got back, flower arrangements, bread, and coffee in hand. He slipped into the kitchen quietly, setting the first vase on the countertop overlooking the open space that encompassed their dining and living room, centering the arrangement so it was clearly visible from the other room. Placing a baguette on the counter next to the flowers, Sora stowed the second loaf away with the bag of coffee beans as he quickly sifted through and removed the contents of his bag.

Then he was quietly making his way back up the stairs and setting the second vase of flowers on a side table in the guest bedroom, before returning to his own.

Riku was still asleep when he entered the room. Sora glanced at the clock, then over to the laptop charging nearby. They'd all been working so much overtime as usage of the app they'd created had picked up and it'd begun to generate some interest and money from investors. That meant late nights in front of the computer, especially for Riku as he tried to address every new bug users encountered, even on Saturdays, their usual night to go out. As Sora approached his side of the bed, he noted the eye mask near his pillow, remembering how he'd used it to block out the glowing light of Riku's computer screen as he admitted defeat and called it a night earlier on in the evening prior.

Carefully, Sora slid back into the bed, pressing his clothed chest against the bare skin of Riku's upper back as he wrapped his arms around his partner and began to slowly kiss his neck.

Riku stirred, made an indistinguishable, muffled sound against the blankets as he stretched each one of his legs in tandem.

"Morning," Sora murmured, continuing to offer affection, trailing his lips from the base of Riku's throat on higher up his neck. He felt Riku press back into him before choosing to speak after a moment's pause.

"Why are you wearing jeans in bed?" The question came out as a testy grumble, had clearly not been what his partner had been expecting.

Sora slid his left hand under Riku's arm, fingers traveling over the muscled skin of his partner's chest. "I went out to get some breakfast food," he said, stifling a groan as Riku pressed his backside more forcefully into his lap. "…and flowers."

He saw Riku open his eyes, blinking rapidly for a moment as he tried to focus on the nearby clock. He closed them a moment later, let out a frustrated groan of his own. "It's too early to be up. They're not even going to be here yet for hours."

Sora let out a hot, exhalation of breath against Riku's ear. "But I'm already awake," he said, voice lowering dangerously close to a purr. "And I kind of want to play." As one hand slid lower, from Riku's chest to his stomach and then began to tease around the band of his boxer-briefs, Sora reached for the eye mask, slipping it over Riku's head in one, practiced movement with his other.

He could see Riku's mouth open, as though to protest. Moving quickly, Sora pulled Riku from his side onto his back, pressing their lips together before his boyfriend could get a word out. At the same time, his free hand moved lower, over the fabric of Riku's underwear as he cupped his boyfriend, then began to teasingly rub.

He felt Riku tense a moment, before settling into the kiss. It had been years since Riku had stopped him from taking control, but the expectation of that kind of reaction still ominously lingered, a troubling thought at the edge of his memory, and a reminder of just how much they'd both had to learn to trust each other in these most intimate moments they so often shared together.

Sora felt Riku's hands begin to work at the top button of his jeans. Just as quickly, he paused with his rubbing and swatted them away.

"No touching allowed," he said, voice light and teasing, before returning to kiss his boyfriend's face. "Unless you want to be completely tied up."

There was still tension visible in Riku's jawline in response to his words. Sora could feel it as he worked over the man's face with gentle, exploring lips. Out of the corner of an eye, Sora saw one of Riku's hands ball into a fist, as though unconsciously treating the teasing comment like an offered challenge. As he returned his attention with increased vigor to Riku's boxers, Sora felt a sense of satisfaction at seeing his boyfriend's balled up fingers gradually, one by one, begin to release.

"Sora…" Riku exhaled his name in a longing breath. At one time it would have been spoken in a warning tone. Now, Sora noted, it was much less threatening, rather more a verbal indication of his boyfriend's yearning need.

"Hmm," Sora purred, returning to Riku's mouth as his hand slipped under the elastic band of the only piece of thin fabric Riku was currently wearing. His hand closed over Riku's steadily growing length at the same moment his tongue sought entrance to Riku's mouth. Then, one slow stroke after another, savoring the hot arousal beginning to pulse and grow within his fingers, Sora felt an initial vibration, then the muffled sound of Riku's first outright moan.

Sora paused, moved momentarily away and responded with a toothy grin to the frustrated sound from the lack of contact that Riku had just made at the back of his throat. He quickly tugged off his shirt, then unbuttoned and slid out of his jeans, kicking them onto the floor at the foot of their bed, before retrieving a small, tinted bottle from his bedside nightstand. He was quick to return to his impatient boyfriend, noting the clear outline of Riku's arousal pressed in place against his lap by the unyielding fabric of his form-fitting underpants.

Swinging one leg up and over Riku's hips, Sora straddled the blindfolded man and placed the bottle off to one side before pressing the weight of his small hands against the supple muscle of Riku's shoulders. In the same breath, he also lowered his hips down to Riku's lap and began a slow, teasing grind.

Riku moaned his name again, but Sora kept up the languorous pace, enjoying the friction and heat both arousals were generating just below their waists.

"So impatient, Riku," Sora chided, a hot exhalation of breath against the side of his lover's face a moment before tonguing the shell of Riku's closest ear. He felt Riku's hips buck beneath him, adding more pressure directly to Sora's own hardening cock.

This time, it was Sora's turn to moan and return the gesture, increasing the pace as he started to grind harder.

"Do you know how violently I want to fuck you into the bed right now?"

Riku's words were spoken slowly, in a low, resonate tone. Sora felt a burst of aroused heat begin to spread out into his limbs from his chest in response. Slowly, he slid his body downward, lowering his face to plant hot, wet kisses on Riku's shoulder and collar, paying particular attention to his chest and both nipples in the process. As he dragged himself down further, Sora could feel the heat of Riku's erection pressing in an almost insistent manner up against his bare chest.

"Yeah, I think the sentiment's pretty clear," he quipped, before licking his lips in an unconscious display of anticipation. "Good thing it's my turn to be in charge now, huh?"

Riku's only response was a sardonic scowl, followed by a quiet, frustrated moan.

Fluttering his fingers experimentally over the strip of elastic fabric band, Sora inclined his head and took in a breath, appreciating his boyfriend's distinctive scent. Gently, he placed his mouth at the base of Riku's erection, kissing slowly upward over the taut span of the silky fabric.

Riku's hips pressed upward again as he sucked in a sharp breath. The actions drew Sora's eyes up, past the defined muscles of his partner's upper body and to the sharp lines of what he could see of Riku's face. Silver hair was spread out around the pillow, messy, sleep-mussed tendrils adding to the feral appearance of the man's already fierce looks. From Sora's vantage point, the sleep mask was a simple black strip covering Riku's aquamarine eyes. This, quite simply, was an image of everything he loved spread out in full view before him.

Suddenly impatient himself, Sora slipped his fingers under the edge of the underwear band, lifting the fabric, then pulling it down and off Riku's legs. He wasted no time wrapping a hand around Riku's length again as he slowly began to stroke. This time, Riku remained curiously silent. As he quickened the rhythmic pace, Sora looked up again, surveying the man before him to gauge his next move.

Riku was tensing again, Sora noted, his jaw tightly clenched. How many times had he seen this, his boyfriend's ingrained habit to remain in control over his own body's reactions to pleasure? Over the years, it happened with increasing infrequency, but the inclination hadn't disappeared in full entirety just yet.

Still stroking, Sora reached for the bottle, careful not to alert Riku of what he'd just done via any of his non-visual senses.

"Riku…" Sora murmured, popping open the bottle simultaneously to muffle the sound. "I love you."

Riku's jaw relaxed, the words seeming to serve as a reminder of where he was, of who he was with.

"I love you, t—"

Sora didn't wait to hear the end of the reply, instead quickly stroking downward and taking the remaining half of Riku's length into the hot confines of his mouth.

The resounding moan it elicited was satisfyingly melodic to his ears, and it took Sora considerable effort to stifle his own reactionary moan as he continued to lick and suck and taste over Riku's entire length. He remembered with light amusement how this salty, masculine flavor had once been enough to make him hesitate. Now he relished the taste and every other aspect of this kind of intimacy, whether they called it sex, or fucking, or simply making love once in awhile when feeling particularly sentimental.

Riku's hips soon began to match the pace Sora had set with his mouth. There was a time when this would have most assuredly led to Sora receiving orders, maybe even feeling Riku's hands at the back of his head guiding his cock deeper, more chokingly into the back of Sora's throat, regardless of the rules that he'd already initially set. Then again, Sora thought as he slid his tongue over the slit at the top of Riku's head, momentarily pausing to enjoy appreciate the briny tang of pre-come, there was also a time when he would have let Riku take control without objection. But that was awhile ago, when their relationship was on considerably less equal ground than it seemed to be now.

"Sora, _nnnh_-god," Riku murmured, head thrown back and throat clearly exposed. "I'm…_fuck_, getting so close."

Quickly squeezing a generous amount of lube onto one hand, Sora proceeded to replace his mouth with a long upward stroke of his other hand. "Then you'd better take off that mask so I can be sure you get to watch."

Riku let out a shuddering breath but was quick to comply, pushing the sleeping mask up and away from his face. He propped himself on his elbows, then met Sora's gaze. At first, they simply took one another in, sharing a silently intimate moment, before Sora shot his best friend a teasing grin and began to go to work with his mouth on the tight skin of Riku's cock once again. This time, as one hand slipped between Riku's legs searchingly, Sora kept his eyes trained upward, across the bed at Riku. Aquamarine eyes were locked on his, seemed to be only half-focused through the haze of his currently aroused state.

As Sora began to massage the tight muscle at Riku's entrance, he felt his boyfriend tense, then noticeably exhale as if willing himself to relax. It was at that moment that he slipped his first finger inside up to the second knuckle. He knew Riku could take more, but by now Sora had learned to gauge Riku's reactions before proceeding too far, to interpret the tension in his body and know when penetration was just something that might be better discontinued in favor of something less triggering.

He'd been so angry at first, finding out how painful Riku's first few intimate encounters had been. For Sora, it more than explained the initial refusal to ever allow anyone to penetrate him in college. And, with the realization that Riku had purposefully been careful to ensure their first time together in that way had been as enjoyable as possible, the feelings of anger and helplessness had more often than not in the beginning congealed into outright guilt for not having understood his own attractions earlier, even though Sora knew it wasn't realistic to believe it was his job to have prevented any of it.

Riku didn't balk this morning at Sora's actions, simply dropped his head back to the pillows underneath him, bending his knees slightly to give Sora an easier angle to enter him from. Sora slid a second finger in alongside his first at the same time that he opened his throat, taking Riku's length in as far as it would go. A mixture of mild discomfort coupled with the promise of increasing pleasure was the most effective way to go about this. It was Riku who'd taught him this right at the beginning of their relationship, now so long ago.

Sliding his digits in as far as they would go, Sora began gently fingering Riku, making a slow back and forth motion as he started to alternate between running his tongue upward and over the slit at Riku's head and engulfing his boyfriend's cock in a wet, sucking motion on the way back down. As Riku's moans began to come sooner and sooner, one aroused, longing sound after the other, Sora found his free hand drifting downward, slipping under the band of his own underwear so he could also start to jerk himself off.

"Yeah, that's it," Sora heard Riku say, voice now a low, silken purr. He felt a hand tangle in a fistful of hair at the back of his head. It remained there, following the up and down motions of Sora's mouth, but didn't make any move to exert a new, increased pace or any control of its own. "Keep doing that," Riku gasped out, "and I'm going to come down your throat."

Sora felt the responding vibrations of his own involuntary moan against the hot skin of Riku's cock. Gripping his own length and beginning to stroke even more quickly, Sora pulled his fingers out of Riku, then repeatedly began to thrust them right back in. He only had a moment to prepare himself before Riku's first, salty release. Sora swallowed the initial load with visible enthusiasm. As the second spurt of fluid came, he pressed Riku's cock deeper into his throat, making a soft choking sound as he tried to deepthroat his boyfriend's length and at the same time swallow every drop of his release. He felt Riku's hips buck up toward his mouth one final time before settling, exhausted, back down against the bedsheets.

It was the satisfied, spent expression in his boyfriend's aquamarine eyes that finally pushed Sora over the edge of his own arousal. Before long, he cried out himself as he rode the wave of his own climax, feeling the heat of his erection pulsing an almost rhythmic beat in his hand as he came.

He had just enough energy to remove his boxers, to wipe any lingering streams of fluid off his now uncovered body as well as the lube from his fingers, before Sora found himself half-collapsing onto one side of his boyfriend's upper body. For a moment, they remained where they had both fallen, Riku on his back, Sora laying sideways and feeling the rise and fall of the heavy breaths straight from his lover's chest. Soon after, he felt strong arms embrace him, pulling him further upward. Lips met his sweat-dampened forehead, kissing with patent tenderness.

"Okay," Sora said, words coming out in an audibly breathless pant, "Now I'm starting to feel a little tired."

"Shocker." He heard Riku quietly chuckle, then felt the subtle curve of Riku's lips against his forehead as they rose upward, no doubt into the beginnings of a well-practiced smirk.

Squirming a little in place, trying to get comfortable, Sora settled into the crook of Riku's shoulder. "Oh hush. You liked it," he said, eyes heavy and beginning to close.

Later, he couldn't be sure if he'd heard the word or simply dreamed it, but as he began to drift back into a satisfied, comfortable sleep, Sora could have sworn that he heard one syllable spoken in quiet response, nearly concealed in its entirety behind the hint of a husky, contented sigh.

"Truth."

o - o

It was Riku who woke first, slowly opening bleary, heavily lidded eyes as he tried to adjust to the brightness of light in the room. At first, he remained in place on his back, unmoving as he tried to get his bearings. A moment later, he locked the joints of his legs, feeling his muscles tighten, then release, as he worked his way through the much needed stretch.

Still asleep, his boyfriend shifted beside him. From Riku's vantage point, he could see a shock of messy brown hair and the slender line of Sora's shoulder where it connected with his chest. His eyes followed the path from chest to waist and on to one hip, taking in the sight with an appreciative scrutiny. Through the years, Sora had filled out a little, had put on muscle when he'd started accompanying Riku on his daily trips to the gym. The muscle definition was lithe though, and subtle, hardly visible beneath Sora's clothed frame, even after he'd stopped wearing the baggiest pants known to man in favor of more complementary, form-fitting options.

Then again, with the way Sora would swing his hips when he was feeling flirty while they were out at bars and clubs, Riku hardly needed much imagination to remind himself of what his boyfriend's body looked like, regardless of how visibly his muscle definition showed up or not beneath his chosen clothes.

Lowering his chin, Riku kissed the crown of Sora's head. His boyfriend smelled faintly of both sweat and sex. The realization made the arm on which Sora was sleeping flex, as Riku drew his partner in on closer toward him.

"Sora," he murmured, cheek still pressed up against the brunet's hair, "we should probably think about getting up."

Next to him, Riku heard Sora yawn, his muscles going rigid as he stretched his own limbs. "What time's it?" Sora asked, his voice a mumbled slur. "Didn't mean to fall back to sleep anyway..."

"Time for a shower," Riku said, gently disentangling himself from Sora. "Thanks to your little stunt this morning, we're definitely both going to need it."

Eyes finally open, Sora glanced up. "Oh. Right…sorry about that." The words would have sounded more sheepish, more sincerely apologetic, if not for the silly little grin that followed along with them.

Riku merely rolled his eyes in response as he slid off his side of the bed. "Like hell you are, I'll bet."

Sora rolled over, from his side to his back, full-out stretching as he left the front of his body completely exposed to Riku's traveling gaze. Noting his boyfriend's silent attention, Sora shot Riku a flirty look, letting a hand travel down his chest and come to the rest at the top of one of his thighs. "Next time, I'll let you do what you want to me," he said, eyes flickering, salaciously blue, as his tongue momentarily appeared, sliding temptingly over his lips. "What was it you said again? Something about fucking me into the bed?"

Making his way around the room and over to Sora's side of the bed, Riku leaned forward, pressing his mouth against Sora's in a confident, controlling kiss at the same time that one hand wrapped its way possessively around his boyfriend's slender neck. As he broke away from Sora's lips, Riku allowed himself to linger near the side of his boyfriend's face, grip flexing, vice-like, at Sora's throat. "Yeah," he breathed, enjoying the smug sense of satisfaction as he felt the rising flesh of Sora's throat and a tight, accompanying swallow against the rigid cage of his fingers. "Something like that."

A moment later, he released his boyfriend and stepped back to give him space to get out of bed. Sora sat up, dangling his legs off the mattress as the fingers of one hand fluttered almost inquisitively over the place Riku had just been restraining him. Riku doubted it was meant to be purposefully teasing, but the unconscious, innocent motion still seemed to be offering him a tempting little promise that there might be more fun for both of them to engage in later.

Riku turned away, toward the closet to retrieve some clothing, before heading to the bathroom, aware of Sora padding along a few steps behind him. As Riku made his way to the sink and began to brush his teeth, he heard Sora turn the shower on, then open and close its sliding glass door upon entering. Done with his teeth, Riku was soon to follow his boyfriend, slipping into the shower stall right behind him.

His boyfriend was lathering up with body wash by the time he got in. Without a word, Riku moved behind him, arms wrapping around Sora's waist and sliding upward, over his chest and to his shoulders. They remained there a prolonged moment, pressing into the tense muscles he found there.

He felt Sora lean into the massage just a little, before craning his neck to shoot Riku a half-smile. His expression seemed distant though, a bit troubled. It was a direct contrast to the playful attention he'd been exuding earlier.

"Something wrong?" Riku asked as he allowed his hands to move on, spreading the body wash he'd collected across Sora's shoulders and lower on down his back.

Sora sighed, an action Riku noticed more from the rise and fall of his shoulders than the breath's actual sound. "Not really," he said. As he stepped into a more direct line of the water's stream, however, he continued to speak. "I was just wondering if you were feeling nervous about seeing her again."

Ah. So that was it. Switching places with Sora, Riku reached for a bottle of shampoo, lathering a generous portion into his hair. "Not really," he said, which was true. For a moment, he was tempted to supplement, to let Sora know how much he really didn't give two fucks about Kairi after how they'd both been treated the last time they'd seen her. For his boyfriend's sake, he held back the vitriolic words. If this was important to Sora, it was at least a little important to him by extension. As he felt Sora's hands reach for him, slippery and gentle as they returned the favor and spread body wash over his back, Riku offered his boyfriend a more introspective thought on the matter. "This is our home. It's our city she's visiting. If anything, she'll probably be less sure of how to react than we should be."

"True," Sora murmured, still sounding uncertain. As Riku finished washing off, he turned back to Sora, planning to ask if he was done. Before he could react, he felt arms encircling him as his boyfriend pulled him into a tight hug, wet hair sticking out at odd angles as Sora leaned his full weight into his shoulder. For a moment, Riku froze in place, surprised by the sudden, affectionate action. Unbidden, thoughts of relationships he'd had before starting to date Sora flashed through Riku's mind - if those encounters could even be considered relationships, come to think, Riku figured.

This was so different for him, even now, years after he felt like he should have gotten used to it. Sora's easy, enduring affection, and the way he seemed to wholeheartedly share his feelings without apparent compunction, still sometimes managed to surprise him. Years ago, he'd never imagined this kind of outcome for himself, had accepted that there would always be something important missing from his life if he was fully open about his attractions, if he ever resolved to come out to everyone as genuinely, sincerely, himself.

Even with Sora by his side, it hadn't been easy by any stretch of the imagination. Both had dealt with their fair share of family rejection. Years into their relationship, Riku had still expected Sora to leave, one day just get fed up with Riku's emotional and intimacy-related hangups and walk straight out the door toward something less complicated, to someone who more outwardly expressed affection toward Sora the way Riku knew his boyfriend unquestionably deserved.

But Sora had stayed, and, over time, Riku had realized it was possible to change. It just took time, with a healthy dose of patience and support in between. It was a good thing, Riku mused as he looked down at his best friend now, that Sora didn't seem to be unwilling to offer up any of those things.

So, even though Riku didn't share Sora's hesitation about this upcoming reunion, he found himself returning the gesture, offering comfort for his boyfriend's benefit and wrapping his arms around Sora's upper back, neck inclined to rest his cheek on the top of his best friend's head. There Riku remained, as water fell around both of them, content to hold Sora protectively, possessively, for as long as the brunet decided he needed it.

o - o

Much later that evening, after helping move luggage into the guest rooms, then enjoying the lavish meal that Sora had by now been meticulously planning for weeks, they retired to the living room, each adult taking a chair to continue conversing. Except Sora, Riku noted with a hint of amusement. His boyfriend had opted to spread out on the nearby rug, next to the accompanying children, as he watched the two of them play a handheld video game, from time to time offering commentary and encouragement with unadulterated enthusiasm.

During a lull in the conversation, Kairi glanced up at the nearby mantle clock. "Tidus," she said, giving her husband a pointed look. "I think it may be time for the kids to get ready for B - E - D."

The younger of the children, a girl of four, looked up, head tilted to one side as she tried to make sense of the mysterious word. By her side, her older brother rolled his eyes. "Too easy, Mom," he said.

Propping his chin up in his hands, elbows bracing himself as he lay on his stomach on the floor beside them, Sora shot both kids a look of mock confusion. "Why does she want you to get ready for …Deb?"

His nephew's eyes widened in surprise. "_Bed_, uncle Sora! B - E - D spells bed!"

Sora turned toward his little niece, a good-natured, somewhat conspiratorial expression passing across his features. "Bed? That's what that word was? You've got to be kidding me. Who'd want to get ready for _that_?"

The girl giggled, clearly delighted, before turning to her mother. "Yeah, mommy! We don't want to go to bed _or_ get ready for Deb!"

Her brother crossed his arms and shot her a lordly look. "That's not what that word mean—"

"_Thank you_, uncle Sora," Kairi interjected, speaking over her son. "I have a feeling she'll be repeating this new joke for weeks."

Sora stood, a wide smile on his face. He offered Kairi an exaggerated bow. "All in a day's work, your highness." The comment elicited another burst of giggles from one child, and the hint of an emerging smile from the other.

Sora made his way over toward the stairs, waving to both kids with one hand. "C'mon, guys. Gotta get to bed now so you can be rested up for the park and beach tomorrow."

Riku watched as both kids jumped up, scampering toward Sora with expressions of matching eagerness. Nearby, Tidus also stood. "I'll go help him," he said. Riku watched without comment as the man gave Kairi a meaningful look. "Those two can be a handful."

Then it was just the two of them alone, the silence quickly spreading out in the space between them both before Kairi finally opted to speak up and end it.

"If only it were that easy to get them to bed back home," she commented, her tone conversational, light. Despite this, Riku thought he could sense an underlying note of hesitation as her eyes quickly darted away from him and back down toward the floor.

Beside her, Riku merely nodded. He had no experience with children, wouldn't know how to handle them if he was ever actually asked. Where Sora was naturally good with kids, Riku suspected he wouldn't have the requisite patience to deal with them for very long. Sometimes even some of his boyfriend's more childish antics annoyed him. But at least Sora could usually be reasoned logically with. The same couldn't, he assumed, be said for most actual kids.

Glancing over at Kairi, Riku noticed her obvious discomfort. She always tended to fiddle with a random piece of jewelry she was wearing whenever something made her anxious. This time it was a small cross hanging from a gold chain on her neck, her fingers rubbing it at a frenetic, anxious pace.

Stifling a sigh, all the while reminding himself he had agreed to play nice for Sora's benefit, Riku offered Kairi something she might be able to work with in the form of a polite, conversational reply. "They seem like good kids," he said, the words feeling awkward even to his own ears. Riku wasn't used to speaking without purpose, even just for the sake of socialization. "But they also seem to have a lot of energy," he couldn't help tacking on.

Kairi looked up, expression initially unreadable, before gradually smiling and nodding her agreement. "They are. And Sora's just so good with them."

"No surprise there," Riku said, leaning back in his chair and crossing one leg over the other. "It's sort of his default state to act like a kid himself." His tone hinted at friendly sarcasm, yet he still found himself watching Kairi with a healthy level of circumspection.

Seeming to pick up on his underlying mood, Kairi's smile faltered but she steadfastly held Riku's gaze. For a moment they simply regarded each other in silence, as Riku held the urge to cross his arms one on top of the other over his chest in careful check.

Kairi cleared her throat, shifted her weight slightly in the chair across from him. "I realize I never said I was sorry after all these years," she finally said, changing the subject, her cheeks flushing a subtle color as she spoke. "And," she continued, "as time goes on, it's been wearing on me more and more."

Watching her with a wary gaze, Riku took a moment to compose his thoughts before offering a response. "I'm pretty sure Sora told me you apologized awhile ago, actually." When Kairi didn't initially respond, he spoke up again, voice low, tone subtly flat. "Or, at least, given his relief when you two started talking again, it seems like he managed to get the underlying message."

Kairi shook her head, wine red hair bobbing gently around her chin with the movement. "That's not what I meant," she said, eyes flickering away for a moment before returning with determination to his face. "I already did apologize to Sora, that is, yes. What I was trying to say is that I never once said I'm sorry to you."

Riku froze, shoulders tensing as he held her gaze. He hadn't been expecting this, even though now it seemed obvious that it's what she'd been hinting at it. For once, he found himself at a loss, didn't have a snarky comeback at the ready, had absolutely zero idea what to say. The more cynical side of him wanted to throw her words back at her, eyebrow quirking sarcastically upward. _Well, are you actually? After all these years?_

That side of him was also an admission of emotional weakness though, he realized, clear proof that, even ten years out, her actions then still had the ability to affect him emotionally now.

Unbidden, a memory returned to him, and for a moment Riku could clearly visualize the image of Sora bursting into his dorm room the first day back in school after winter break of their freshman year, a look of outright panic marring his generally laid back, carefree features.

"Riku, Kairi told," Sora had said, an unfathomable, frightened look in his eyes. "Our parents know."

Three words. Three simple words had set in motion a series of decisions and events that had drastically changed both of their lives. And, if Riku was willing to be even a little bit empathetic, he could begrudgingly admit it had probably altered Kairi's pretty substantially as well. Sora and Riku hadn't been the only one who'd lost a friend.

He'd expected Sora to leave him right then, or to at least decide that keeping things on the down-low for the foreseeable future would be best. It would've hurt him a lot, Riku was willing to admit now, but it also would've been worth it if it'd meant being able to stay in Sora's life, even if by simply reverting back to a more platonic form of their prior friendship. Much to his surprise though, the idea of keeping their relationship a secret or denying it entirely hadn't even seemed to cross Sora's mind. And, with that out in the open, it'd only been a matter of time before the threats from their families about taking away their financial support had become a stressful, horrifying reality.

He hadn't even been able to afford to finish college, had simply taught himself various skills in web development through tutorials online and picked up part-time freelance work wherever he could. It'd ensured Sora could continue his own education and eventually earn a degree. At the time, Riku'd had no idea the skills he was honing would end up being so financially lucrative. In a way, it seemed like every new phase of his life had begun with some form of unanticipated revelation of a similar magnitude. For better or worse.

Apparently interpreting his stunned expression as hostile skepticism, Kairi continued on, effectively pulling Riku away from the confusing jumble of thoughts she'd been the one to prompt in the first place. "I really am sorry, Riku…" He looked up just as she hung her head, face an expression of remorseful shame. "I know now I had no right to tell anyone about you two without your permission." She sniffed a little, turned her face half away to swipe at the corner of her eye with the back of one hand.

Oh, _she_ was the one about to cry now, Riku thought with ire, when this had all been completely her fucking fault?

Riku wanted to snap at her, to verbally lash out. It was a little too late for sorries, wasn't it, when the damage had already effectively been done? Unable to help himself, Riku felt his hands ball into fists on both sides of his chair. He took a deep breath in through his nose, letting it slowly out of his mouth, as he reminded himself how important this visit was to Sora. Of course, Sora had been so quick to accept her apology when she's initially offered it, so eager to move forward and on. It was Riku who always let ill feelings linger, allowed each new agony to fester until it seemed to chip away irreparably at more and more of his vulnerable heart.

He was reminded of a time though, still in the early stages of his relationship, when it'd been he who'd needed Sora's forgiveness, for a transgression — an infidelity, in all terrible, reprehensible honesty — that so many others would have never let him forget. It couldn't have been easy, he conceded, but eventually, lovingly, Sora had given him a second chance. Still watching Kairi through stoic, slitted eyes, Riku reminded himself that they'd all been friends once, before hormones and adolescence and the stupid melodramas of high school had effectively worked as a means to push them further apart.

He still didn't understand what her motives for revealing their relationship to both sets of parents had been, wouldn't ever again believe in or return to the religion they'd all been brought up in as children. And he'd never understand how she could live her life so comfortably, so effortlessly, when he'd spent most of his own feeling so out of place, so sinful and altogether, irreparably wrong. But, he supposed as he continued to watch his old friend through the corners of his eyes, maybe it really wasn't necessary to have to understand the individual nuances of one another's personal lives.

In the end, it was thoughts of Sora that compelled Riku to rise up out of his chair and walk toward someone he'd once considered one of his closest friends. He approached Kairi slowly, with the same hesitancy she'd first displayed the moment they'd found themselves alone and more able to privately talk. Looking up, she watched him, eyes shining brightly with tears still unshed. Tentatively, Riku held a hand out to her. He helped her stand. Then they were hugging, their first contact in as long as Riku could conceivably remember. Kairi's shoulders trembled, her body shuddering against Riku's chest as she finally gave in and let herself quietly begin to sob.

And Riku? Riku simply watched as Sora reappeared at the bottom of the stairs, nodding curtly at his boyfriend's inquiring expression as he continued to hold Kairi close to him, offering Sora a silent affirmation that sometime eventually, maybe even soon, they were all going to end up being just fine.


	12. Derivative (SoRiku)

**Summary**: Because dueling with wood swords isn't fun without a partner, and blue eyes don't look quite right without brown mussed-up hair crowned above them.

**A/N**: So I offered to do a gift fic for **silvermyth** after the evocative, sexy AkuRoku one-shot she gifted me. (It's called Fill the Void. Go read it.)

She suggested SoRiku and reincarnation and because my mind works in mysterious (i.e., screwed up, reprehensible) ways, this is what somehow developed.

**Rating**: T (warnings for discussion of death and dying and the grieving process)

* * *

><p>The day Sora died, Riku was nine, three days shy of his foray into double-digit adolescence. He hadn't been upset when he was pulled out of class, guided down the hall, and into an administration office, not even after a stoic father and tearfully emotive mother broke the news that changed everything.<p>

At the time, Riku thought it would all be fine, that like a mainland vacation or a sick period necessitating out-of-school bed rest, Sora would be gone one day and return the next so life as best friends could resume on its predestined schedule.

Riku hadn't understood the true significance of words like permanent until he encountered his first taste of death as an unyielding constant. It hadn't hit home at an admin office sit-down or even during the brief but heartfelt funeral. Instead it was learned when his loneliness coalesced, forming smaller revelations most would consider mundane facets associated with the living of everyday life.

He felt it traversing the beach in the singular set of footprints left in his wake, saw hints in the discontinuation of sleepovers and the knowledge that other-world supposition wasn't nearly as fun when posited solo. It cropped up in the newfound dearth of one-on-one blitzball skirmishes. It was even a mirthless hard hit that his age-worn velveteen Mickey plushie wasn't the same now that his friend's two complementing Disney toy animals had been boxed into storage.

Above all, it was the harsh realization of the impossibility to duel with wooden swords as a party of one, absent a boy once happy to yawp declarations of 'best friends forever' to the depths of oceanic heavens under the rising swell of a tree that grew paopu fruit.

The anger would feature later. It'd come in waves, ebbs and flows like emotion-based tides. Those natural occurrences were controlled by the moon, but nothing Riku experienced by way of this miserable heartache could ever be anticipated with such routine accuracy.

He learned that grief didn't end after a set number of weeks or months, but that people had timeframe expectations they were eager to impose anyway. Not only did grief sometimes twinge at emotional peripherals, he discovered it could just as easily twist even deeper into an impotent soul and throw positivity more permanently afield. For him most of all, it found a place ripe for festering in the vulnerabilities of a heart left considerably feeble. There it settled, solidified in time, unbeknownst to everyone but Riku himself.

He wasn't alone in this initial despondency. Sora had been well-liked; he'd been the nucleus of a cadre of mutual friends. There had been others forced to endure similar stages of the process, those probably even willing to help divide the hurt into more manageable pieces, if Riku'd been willing to ask. His reticence to share anything associated with his best friend in life extended effortlessly into the realm of death, however. Now that only a memory remained of an affable smile, of blue eyes, brown hair, and sun-kissed island skin, Riku found himself enduringly less amenable to the idea still.

Wakka and Selphie were the first he let go, with Tidus not far behind. Kairi was trickier. In the beginning, she was indefatigable, insistent on them remaining in contact despite the well-set mask of his glowering countenance and an increasingly acerbic disposition in place to complement. Eventually, she too began to visit less and less, until all that remained of his former relationships was the occasional greeting during inevitable, unavoidable encounters in school corridors — and the memory of a blue eyed boy with a smile too big for his face serving as an everlasting reminder of the permanent hole at their core.

o - o

The first time Riku left Destiny Islands for more than a vacation or basic day trip, it was to attend college on the mainland, and he already had an inkling he'd never return home. His peers departed with him, and Kairi and Tidus were even assigned the same dorm house. That being said, Riku's intentions were to start fresh, to sever past island ties with the cleanest of cuts possible. By then, he'd become superb at avoidance, singularly focused on classes, and it was easy enough to keep his door locked to the rest of the world.

Despite his best efforts to remain apathetic, there were times when the walls of his dorm room seemed to close in on him, others when his roommate would invite over noisy friends. Then Riku would leave, and the easiest destination requiring the least amount of effort was the downstairs community room. With his nose in a textbook, hard expression set, and earbuds pulsing an assortment of indie rock at externally audible levels, people were well on notice to leave him alone.

It was this very same community room where Riku first saw him, a nucleus surrounded by an assortment of friends around a pool table, focused on the myriad worlds of multi-colored stripes and solids. His features were subtly off-kilter, but the smile was perennially recognizable, and there was no way Riku could forget eyes so blue.

The boy laughed a laugh so similar to Sora's it cracked grief in two around the cage of his heart, and long-stifled feelings crept out like spiders, static and prickling into his limbs. Riku watched from off in one corner in a chair near the board game storage locker as the boy chalked up the tip of his pool cue and took aim with Sora-esque confidence. He watched, held his breath, then waited, pretending the ache of longing at the lower dips of his ribs couldn't possibly belong to him.

Sensing the weight of another's gaze, the boy looked up, then over until he located the observing interloper, and they shared their first moment of dual awareness from two places across the same single room.

The boy was all mussed-up blond hair, ocean blue eyes, and the pale skin of an indoor-centric urban upbringing. These were superficialities Riku could ascertain immediately. Instead of averting his gaze, or shooting off a dirty look for staring so flagrantly, blue eyes looked at him for a beat of time, then two. Before turning back to his waiting friends, their owner offered Sora's smile and a look that was just a little too big for such a diminutive, cherubic face.

Much like grief, the smile led to new things, to introductions and sitting together at dinner, to meeting people by the mere experience of close association. It led to Riku being able to say his best friend's name again daily without unqualified anguish, if only in the silence of his mind. It led to learning names like Demyx and Zexion and Larxene, to late night dorm cafeteria cereal reconnaissance and shooting the shit on the campus green between classes while cramming for quizzes. It meant listening to Demyx's off-key singing and learning about myriad instruments that made music via strings; and taking an extra class in Physics beyond his own major's requirements at Zexion's encouraging behest; and when Larxene needed a designated driver late one night after an unequivocal failure of a blind date, it meant Riku riding passenger-side, bleary-eyed, on the way out of the dorms and toward downtown in one particular blond's car. It led to remembering that Sora had never had the chance to grow old enough to learn how to drive in the first place.

It also ushered in a fully resounding heartache, a feeling he thought he'd long ago learned to stifle. Because, most of all, meeting Roxas meant learning about Axel.

It'd have been easy to withdraw again after such a jarring revelation, a simple process of making himself increasingly unavailable just like before. It'd take a few ignored texts, a handful of unreturned phone calls, and people would start leaving him alone again, Riku figured.

But blues eyes kept calling, remaining steadfastly companionable, and the invites for nights out kept arriving. Riku, in turn, kept accepting as a direct consequence, no longer with Kairi, Wakka, Selphie, or Tidus, but with a new group of people who might residually count as friends. Growing up, some people might call it, and others still would be quick to note that he'd finally found a way to move on.

Only Riku still knew the agony afresh when he saw childhood remnants, whenever blue eyes looked at him with intimate familiarity at one moment only to silently recapitulate the wrong name the next. Roxas was his own person, with a different charge to his persona, augmented by Axel's encouraging presence. Riku knew all this; he watched it play out day after day. He tortured himself with it every evening.

Just the same, the blue eyes were enough for him to keep on remembering, for the time being.

In a way, it seemed fitting that pain collected like fresh rain water every time he was in not-Sora's presence. In that way, Riku discovered there were more ways to self-harm than the act of externalized injury and that mental scars lasted longer than sarcoline marks to his skin. It also fit, seemed somehow appropriate, to fall in with this crowd, a group of nobodies on campus whose shared experiences were formed by their mutual outsider status. This included, among other things, romantic same-gender attractions they'd all grown up believing constituted some inherent malfunction of being.

Riku knew enough about darkness and a half-lived, incomplete existence to find himself at home among them, even if he didn't seamlessly jibe with their histories of urban adolescence, of parenting that more often encompassed enduring absence over supportive presence. Maybe this sense of tenuous acceptance was why he found himself saying yes to Roxas' invitation to Axel's off-campus apartment one Saturday evening to watch a movie with the rest of these new faces and different names than the ones he'd grown up with.

In the beginning, it was all popcorn and cheap alcohol, some jokes posed by Demyx, a bit of Larxene's snide laughter, and an exasperated abundance of eye rolls from Zexion. By intermission, it was Axel kissing Roxas who was nestled on his lap, Zexion conceding and sliding his hand into Demyx's, and Larxene hissing operatic indignation when she spotted both sets of boy-on-boy demonstrations of patent affection. By movie's end, it was a trio of college seniors taking their leave while Riku remained curled up on Axel's oversized beanbag, head filled with buzzing, with unwanted mnemonics occasionally punctuated by the soft vibratory purr of Roxas' snores. Chest rising and falling beneath Axel's attenuate arm on the love-seat only a few inches away, it served as a mocking reminder of what he himself might've had if death weren't so persistently permanent.

At some point, he supposed, he'd fallen asleep, because at some point he found himself jolted awake under the weight of another's observing scrutiny. Vision bleary, heart ever resignedly leaden, Riku fought a yawn and tilted his chin to look up toward the couch.

Blue eyes were studying him, the wide-eyed gaze overpowering subsidiary features on a cherubic face. In the stagnant silence of early morning, they shared their second moment of dual awareness from two places in the same single room.

This time there were no waiting friends or a pool game to turn back to, not even a familiar smile for Riku to latch onto. Instead, Roxas was staring and surveying, an affable nucleus at the center of the two who surrounded him.

"Swords," he said, voice hushed, and Riku blinked at the vivid image the word induced. "I remember now. It's impossible to play without a partner."

He extended a hand attached to a pale arm, and Riku knew this was skin that had never felt an island's sunlight. He reached up and twined his fingers into it anyway.

Roxas didn't speak again, and Riku neither asked questions nor demanded a logical answer. Hand-in-hand they remained together, worlds apart, simply watching each other on the way to dawn and its patent reminder of the lives they were meant to finish with others.


	13. Genesis (Axel)

**Summary**: Everyone knows about Roxas and the mental grey he came into the world battling. No one thought to ask Axel the same questions about his own awakening. [Axel/Lea post-BBS, pre-COM/Days one-shot.]

**A/N**: One morning, I woke up an hour before my alarm was set to go off, one sentence repeating _ad infinitum_ in my restless little head. It turned into the first line in this one-shot (and has a very _b'rashit bara elohim_ / Book of Genesis feel to me, hence the name of this ficlet). There are probably some non-canon liberties taken here with some of the descriptions of what happened. There are probably many, actually.

**Rating**: T (non-explicit descriptions of gore, death, and depersonalization)

* * *

><p>In the beginning there was the Word, and it was a name. It spoke to him like a lover, warm and familiar, but wholly different than he remembered. He woke in its affectionate, welcoming embrace, but couldn't find it in him to reciprocate, to accept it as his own.<p>

He couldn't find it in him to do anything other than stare at his own body, prostrate in front of him, and wonder if he was supposed to feel something about that too.

In his final moments, he didn't remember being alone. He was now, his only company the other empty shells of those who had been with him at the end, however long ago that was. It was his end as much as theirs, he supposed, although he hadn't had the apparent fortune to remain among the dearly departed like everyone else.

No one was with him when he woke again, memories swirling like petals of garden flowers caught upwind. There were names among these many incorporeal corollas, of scientists and security guards, off the top of his head. There were names of teenagers and children who'd had their futures wrested from them in a fit of rampant violence. Vaguely, he remembered the terror. If he listened closely enough, he could still hear fragments of their ineffectual screaming.

None of this meant anything to him.

For a time, he remained within the castle's ivory walls, strolling, hands clasped behind him at the small of his back, chest bent subtly forward as if there was substantial weight between both shoulders. There were bodies everywhere. As he passed them, sometimes he heard the whispers, the torpid half-life residuum of what had once passed for thriving humanity.

He remembered some of the shells that remained, the ghosts of their voices prompting the ultimate revelation that he'd been left behind. In their own grey imprint way, they mocked him because, though he hadn't succumbed to death, what he'd become was far worse. Even in these early moments of his burgeoning rebirth, he had an inkling of this indisputable truth. Heat was a paresthesia all around him in the tropics of this midsummer month, but his body remained cold and the stench of decomposing corpses hardly registered.

He thought about what he could remember of his childhood, of winning physical fight games about half the time and losing debates of verbal acuity with unrivaled consistency.

He thought of blue eyes and blond hair for the first time in years and wondered if the rest of the world had gone to a similar form of the same hell.

There was nothing left for him within these suffocating, walled confines, yet he found himself angling his aimless wandering toward the main spiral stairs, drawn by something unnamable. Something dark and wrong, just like he'd become.

The iron tang of long-dried blood tickled his olfactory sense, and he took in the rust-red flecks on the first few steps with an uninspired look. They led to longer trails of the life-giving substance, smeared in abstract patterns along the banister and onto the upstairs corridor walls.

He should feel a kinship to this vital fluid, he supposed; it must surely still flow through his own veins and arteries although it no longer seemed capable of warming his physical frame. There was a level of detachment building the further he strode, however, and he couldn't tell if it was the visual trauma of barbarity he'd recently witnessed or simply a new standard state it'd be in his best interests to become accustomed to as quickly as possible.

_"Do you think we'll ever see him again? Ven, I mean."_

He paused mid-stride, considered the remnant memory of his own adolescent inquiry. He waited for the response he knew would come, measured, level. Isa had always been the more logical among the pair of them.

Nothing. Not even the rustle of a light breeze to break the stagnancy of the castle's leaden quiet.

He resumed the path unconsciously plotted when he'd first abandoned his body and the shells of others in the castle's lower levels. It was a familiar route, one he'd taken so many times in his adolescence and youth, often in the company of others — with Isa and Even and Braig by his side. He found himself wondering, thoughts still coldly one-note, whether Ienzo had at least been able to forge a viable escape route.

Or the girl and her grandmother.

_"What makes you think he even remembers us after all this time? Just because you tell someone to memorize something doesn't mean they'll put forth effort to actually do so. People are unreliable."_

Their living quarters were as he remembered them, one side tidy, the other cluttered. For a moment, he remained at the entryway, framed by the sloping stone arches of an ancient door. If he reached back into the recesses of his distant thoughts, he could almost see himself on his first day in this new place, brought to the castle as a sprite-haired child and introduced to an already present Isa who he'd initially pinned as an unmitigated bore. Their room had changed since then, had collected a modest number of belongings as they'd both begun to mature. It was like stepping into a time capsule now, tantamount to traversing sanctified ground.

_"I want to live forever in the memories of others."_

Something was twisting and scraping, dragging taloned claws down from the empty cavern where a heart once pulsed and into both arms; it was prickling at his fingers, tightening the tendons of his wrists. He knew he should take his last look and turn away, leave this place and its lingering ghosts. Like Isa, the logical part of his mind was now acting as tempered counsel.

He took a step forward anyway. Ambling over to what was once his side of the space, spindly-thin arms Dilan once used to mercilessly tease him about rose of their own volition, his focus homing in on one thing in particular — a pair of childish, annular toy weapons.

In a split-second, he decided that if the disembodied voices of each unsalvageable deceased were this set on mocking him, he would do what it took to silence them permanently.

The first spark from the tips of his fingers didn't register surprise; the blazing heat that followed made even less of an impression, and the flames soon devoured everything within their oxygenated reach. All he could do was drop his arms, lifeless at his thighs, and watch the destruction he'd just manufactured without manifest effort.

He surveyed his work, told himself he felt nothing as the heat licked at his legs, his face, his arms.

Not entirely true, he silently amended. He did feel one thing, and that was unparalleled cold. Still. Even now.

The flames were hypnotic, mesmerizing. Some caught on the edges of his already tattered attire, but he felt nothing as some newfound cognitive part of him reduced each licking spark to mere smolders without the need to so much as lift another finger.

"An impressive display." The voice was deep. It reverberated into the hollow cavity of his chest and made his throat clench with a form of unfamiliar tension. "A little histrionic for my personal taste, but to each his own."

Turning, he regarded the newcomer with considerable dispassion. Eyes an unnatural level of yellow, they were fixed on him with a similar impassive expression. This wasn't someone he recognized, nor would he have cared one way or another if he had possessed some form of patent recollection.

"There are others waiting for you, boy. We have a place for someone with your talents in our organization."

Others. Talent.

He said nothing, wanted none of it.

The man turned away from him, eyes glowing as they reflected the red of impending destruction in a room that had once housed two teenage boys with vastly different personalities.

"One among our numbers asked for you specifically," the man continued, his tone thoughtful. "The moon speaks to him as these flames do you."

This made him look up, at least, brows furrowing into a thinner line than they'd already formed when he'd first woken. There was a name on the tip of his tongue, of someone he thought he remembered once being his closest friend, however different their respective personalities and interests had always been. He couldn't bring himself to say it.

The man glanced at him, but didn't turn. "Tell me: what does the darkness call you?"

Eyes narrowing, he set his face in a stubborn expression of subversion. He knew what his name was, didn't need anyone or anything to say it for him. The man returned the look with a level one of his own.

Orange-red flames rose higher. They obscured his view of the man and captured his rapt attention in tandem. While the voices of the castle's occupants had receded with the rise of the inferno, others slipped in between his ears, took up residence in the empty places where childhood memories should have been. They were myriad, amorphous. They were all saying one thing, repeating it like an axiom they wanted him to take full ownership of. Unlike the one he'd been born with, this moniker had an additional syllable.

He considered this quickly. He thought of the girl, her grandmother, of Braig, Even, Dilan, and Ienzo, the youngest orphan among them. He thought of Isa and his penchant for lecturing soliloquies.

He gauged the revelation that he no longer wanted to be made eternal in the memories of others so much as he was inclined to snuff them out entirely, one by insufferable one.

In the beginning there was the Word, and it was a name.

He looked at the man once more, jaw tight as his throat considered the new consonants and vowels of the name his mouth was primed to utter.

_The darkness. It calls me…_

"Axel."


End file.
